


Dead Man Walking

by cywscross



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, Harry is Lord Potter, Harry-gets-a-secret-second-godfather... sort-of, Regulus Black Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kreacher goes back to save his master, and Regulus survives but his near-death-by-Inferi puts him into a coma for the next sixteen years. When he wakes, well, the world is not so different. Voldemort is still at large, and the Ministry is still inept. His brother’s got a godson now though, so it’s only natural for Regulus to keep an eye on young Harry as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last new fic I’ll start at least until after the New Year, I promiseXD But I also probably won’t be able to update again for at least a few weeks so enjoy this in the meantime.

**I.**

 

                _Cold hands wrap around his limbs and torso and throat.  Skeletal fingers tangle in his hair, rotting teeth tear at his flesh, and the animated corpses around him drag him down, down, down into the icy depths of the lake.  Water fills his lungs, darkness numbs his mind, he can no longer breathe, and death, death is a blessing, and he begs it to come for him now..._

                “-lus!  Master Regulus!  Please wake up!  It is just another night terror!  Master Regulus!”

 

                Regulus jolted awake, sucking in greedy gulps of air as he shot up and stared around wildly, already shivering even with the tangle of blankets twisted around his legs and the sweat matting his hair to his forehead.  He half-expected himself to still be in that cave, terribly thirsty and frightened out of his mind as the Inferi got a hold of him.

 

                Slowly however, his mind began to clear, his breathing evened out, and his gaze fell to the anxious-looking house-elf standing by his bed, hands twisting his ears agitatedly as he hovered worriedly at Regulus’ side.

 

                Despite the horrible memories still plaguing him every time he so much as blinked, Regulus managed a half-smile that he hoped was at least a little reassuring.  Kreacher didn't look all that reassured.

 

                “I’m fine, Kreacher,” Regulus said out loud, voice still hoarse and rusty from the sixteen-year-long coma he had been in.  “Thank you for waking me.”

 

                Kreacher brightened a little, snapping his fingers to instantly exchange Regulus’ bedding with new sheets.  Regulus noticed that there were a few extra blankets, and he was inwardly grateful at his house-elf’s foresight.  He was _still_ shivering from an invisible chill.

 

“Master Regulus is most welcome,” Kreacher croaked.  “Since Master is awake, would he like some breakfast now?”

 

                Regulus hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly when Kreacher’s worried frown became even more pronounced.  The house-elf lit up again and promptly disappeared with a crack, off to make a meal fit for a king.

 

Truth be told, Regulus barely had any appetite these days but after the first month of having Kreacher bring him nutrition potions and other necessities to at least get Regulus _back on his feet_ , the house-elf had insisted on at least two meals a day if not three.

 

                Truly, Kreacher could fuss worse than Madam Pomfrey.

 

                With a shaky sigh, Regulus lay back down and curled up again, wrapping himself in the blankets as tightly as possible.  He felt like a child despite already being thirty-four years old.  And with sixteen years in a Merlin-damned coma...

 

                He’d only been eighteen when he had very nearly died.

 

                He _would've_ died if Kreacher hadn't circumvented his orders and come back for him.  Regulus had only told Kreacher to leave with the locket and destroy it but he hadn't told the house-elf not to come back to grab Regulus as well.

 

                It was actually pretty stupid of him not to simply order Kreacher to Apparate both of them out of there but he’d blame that Drink of Despair for his brain not working at full capacity at the time.

 

                It had cost him sixteen years of his life too, sixteen years of being stuck in nothing but darkness and fear and cold, cold hands holding him under, unable to wake up, though he supposed that was marginally better than twelve years in Azkaban.

 

When Regulus had woken up three months ago (and had finally been lucid enough to _stay_ awake for more than a few seconds, much to Kreacher’s teary-eyed delight), he had gotten the house-elf to tell him everything there was to know about what had happened after he had fallen into a coma.

 

Voldemort’s temporary demise had come as a bit of a surprise; Voldemort’s return a mere few weeks ago – not so much.

 

And of course, Sirius being a reckless idiot and charging headlong after Pettigrew for revenge only to get himself framed and thrown in jail for the next twelve years – Regulus could definitely say that that came as no surprise whatsoever.  His brother had always been the action-first-thinking-later-if-ever sort of man, especially when his temper was running high.

 

A stab of guilt hammered in his chest.  Perhaps... Perhaps things would've been different if he had gone to Sirius when Regulus had first started seeing Pettigrew show up at Death Eater meetings.  Or an anonymous note at the very least; Sirius had – and most likely still – hated him after all, and accusing one of his brother’s fellow Marauders of being a Death Eater to his face probably wouldn't have gone over well, especially since Regulus had been a Death Eater by then too.

 

He shook his head.  The past was the past; there was no use thinking about what-ifs anymore.

 

The present didn't make for much better food for thought though.  Regulus had woken up in the middle of April to a mutinous Kreacher (who had cried in happiness when he had seen Regulus open his eyes at last).  A few days later, when Regulus had been strong enough to listen even though he had still been laid out on his back, the house-elf had reported that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had been overrun by mudbloods and blood traitors alike, namely the Order of the Phoenix.  Luckily, Kreacher had been secretly taking care of Regulus for years without letting anyone know, smart enough to figure out that Regulus had betrayed the Dark Lord by stealing the locket, and hadn't wanted Regulus’ parents – or anyone else for that matter – to find out.

 

Even more fortunate was the fact that Kreacher had barricaded the rooms in which Regulus now lived in to the point where no one but a direct order from a Black would be able to make Kreacher open up the doors for them.  Sirius had almost always despised their childhood home, and had never had any interest in exploring it, claiming that the artifacts hidden inside were too Dark for his tastes.  Regulus wasn't worried that his brother might stumble upon one of the numerous hidden rooms in the house.  The only people who might know more about Grimmauld Place than him were all dead.

 

That aside, Regulus had also heard the mention of a prophecy regarding the Boy-Who-Lived who, of course, just had to be Potter and Evans’ son.

 

Meaning, _of course_ , that they had made Sirius Black godfather.

 

On one hand, it was nothing less than what Regulus had expected the moment Kreacher had revealed to him all the things that the house-elf had overheard in the meetings (which was another oversight on the Order of the Fried Chicken’s part; honestly, orders like ‘stay in the house’ and ‘if you have to talk at all, talk of nothing you hear with anyone outside Grimmauld Place’ were both careless and plain stupid, especially when Regulus was also a Black from the main line and could countermand Sirius’ orders perfectly fine).  After all, James Potter’s most trusted had always been Regulus’ brother so it would stand to reason that Sirius would've been chosen as godfather.

 

But on the other hand, well, Sirius had never been what you would call the epitome of rational thinking.  Revenge on Pettigrew had evidently been too much to resist, and Sirius had chosen that over taking care of his godson.

 

A godson who was staying with _Muggles_ now, according to Kreacher, and _the worst sort of Muggles_ at that, if the various Order members' complaints about the Dursleys could be believed.  And apparently, the kid had only been back at these Dursleys’ place for _a week_.  If it was so obvious that those Muggles were unsuitable guardians, why couldn't they just move the boy someplace else?  Sirius at least should know better.  Blood wards or no, Regulus could already think of half a dozen ways off the top of his head to match the strength of those wards with something found in the Black library.  Not to mention there was the Fidelius Charm; just because it had failed once because they had trusted a rat didn't mean it would fail again.  Heck, Grimmauld Place was under the Fidelius right now, and Regulus hadn't heard of any Death Eaters breaking down the front door.

 

Sirius himself could be the real Secret Keeper this time around, whisk the boy off somewhere for the summer – perhaps Potter Manor – where he would actually enjoy himself, and the Dark Lord would never be able to get Harry Potter’s location; if nothing else, Sirius was fanatically loyal to the people he cared about.

 

But while Regulus had become disillusioned with the Dark Lord’s side, he also maintained the fact that the Light had never had much of a foothold in the intelligence department.  Clearly, they were about as slow as Regulus remembered them to be.

 

That, or they were even bigger Dumbledore groupies than they had been during the last war.  Truthfully, Regulus figured it was a bit of both.

 

“Your lunch, Master Regulus.”

 

Regulus levered himself upright, offering a slight smile for Kreacher as the elf handed him a tray filled to the brim with hot stew, a side of soft bread, and treacle tarts which had always been Regulus’ favourite.  At the moment, he still couldn't eat anything heavier than this.

 

“Thank you, Kreacher,” He rasped out, picking up the spoon.

 

Kreacher beamed, drooping ears perking a bit.  “Master Regulus be needing anything else?”

 

“Not right now, Kreacher,” Regulus paused.  “Actually, could you get together some clothes for me?  A... _Muggle_ attire, if you please.  I need to blend in with the Muggle world.”

 

He mentally wrinkled his nose.  He was indifferent to Muggleborns and half-bloods – the bloody _Dark Lord_ was a half-blood, as Regulus had managed to discover, along with the slew of Horcruxes that the man had made – but Muggles were... well, he was still a little iffy about them but he could hold his distaste at bay.

 

“Master Regulus plans to go out?”  Kreacher enquired with some concern.

 

Regulus nodded.  “Don’t worry; I'm not planning on doing anything strenuous.  My idiot brother is on house arrest though, and _in his own house_ at that; does he have no pride?  Anyway, since he’s locked up here, I thought I’d drop by to see that godson of his that he’s been rambling on about.”

 

Kreacher took on a grouchy look.  “The Potter boy is a half-blood, Master.”

 

“In the end, blood status doesn't truly mean anything, Kreacher,” Regulus sighed.  “We all bleed and hurt and die the same way.  Besides, the boy is Sirius’ godson, which means I have an obligation to keep an eye on him too.  I owe Sirius that much.”

 

Kreacher huffed but let the issue go easily enough.  “Kreacher will go retrieve disgusting Muggle clothing.  And Kreacher will have hot bath ready for Master Regulus to wash any Muggle filth away when he returns.”

 

Regulus smiled somewhat dryly this time as the house-elf popped away.  He returned to his soup, wrapping one hand around the side of the bowl to try and steal some of the warmth into his own body.

 

He wondered if the chill in his bones would ever go away.

 

                He rather doubted it.

 

**II.**

 

                As he trudged down a street in Little Whinging, Regulus burrowed deeper into the warm coat that Kreacher had managed to find for him.  It was fortunate that Regulus had always been frugal with the generous allowance that his parents had given him each month ( _“A Black should never be seen as anything less than perfect, Regulus.”_ ), never using more than absolutely necessary.  Unbeknownst to his family, before he had semi-died, Regulus had also secretly opened a second vault on the side, and had moved most of his money into it just in case the Dark Lord had ever ordered any Death Eaters to give up even more gold to the madman’s cause.  Regulus was a lot of things, and Slytherin was at the very top.  He had had contingency plans for contingency plans, with one scenario being disownment from his family like Sirius had been.  Unlike his brother, Regulus had had no friends who would've taken him in for free should he ever do anything to truly displease Walburga Black, nor had he had any relatives who had liked him enough to leave him money, and if Regulus had ever ended up on the streets, he had had no desire to be a pauper or a beggar.

 

                The private vault he had opened contained enough money for him to live out the rest of his life in comfort if not luxury, and that was good enough for him.

 

                Kreacher had also managed to save his wand, bless the elf’s crooked heart, and while Regulus would never be as brilliant – or flashy – a duelist as Sirius was, his strengths laid in spellwork and research.  He was a decent fighter but he preferred using his head to get out of dangerous situations, and there were enchantments and wards that he had both discovered and created that he was certain even Voldemort wouldn't know of.

 

                Right now though, he had simply cast a powerful glamour on himself, and he had become a nondescript brown-haired, grey-eyed man in his thirties.  His natural black hair, reaching past his shoulders and tied back in a ponytail, now looked shortly cropped to everyone else.

 

                He paused when he reached a park, eyebrow arching.  Oh, it looked like he didn't even have to go all the way to Privet Drive to visit Sirius’ godson (would that make the kid Regulus’ ‘godnephew’?).

 

                Casually turning into open space, his eyes scanned the grass, easily picking up the two indents that gave away the invisible person standing there.

 

                _Honestly_.

 

                Well, at least he had double insurance that it wasn’t Moody under that cloak because the ex-Auror would never be this sloppy.  Of course, Kreacher had already given him the full schedule of the Order’s rotation duty when on Potter-watch so he knew it was his little cousin Nymphadora Tonks under that cloak.

 

                Not so little anymore though, and he had only ever seen her once from afar a long time ago when she had been a toddler.  Andy would've freaked if he had ever approached her daughter in any way.

 

                Without letting his gaze stray to the Order member (no doubt studying him closely now from under her invisibility cloak), Regulus chose a bench at the edge of the park to sit on, a dozen feet away from the swing where Harry Potter was brooding morosely from.

 

                Regulus unfolded the Muggle newspaper that he had brought along, raising it to cover his face just so he could grimace openly at the boy’s lack of awareness.  Regulus could've killed the kid three times over by now before Nymphadora could've done anything, and that was not accounting the fact that he also could've thrown a successful Stunner at her already what with her giving herself away in broad daylight.

 

                He crossed his legs and leaned back so he could survey Harry over the top of his paper without making it noticeable.  Still brooding.  Well, the kid _had_ gone through quite a few hardships, plus he was a teenager.

 

                The clothes he was wearing were atrocious though.  Even Regulus drew the line at wearing anything less than top-of-the-line Muggle clothing despite his jeans, shirt, and sweater being more casual apparel than formal.

 

                The boy’s clothes were at least three sizes too big on him though, not to mention those glasses didn't match his face at all.  In Regulus’ opinion, the kid should just correct his eyesight with a potion; why James Potter had never done it was beyond him.  The Gryffindor had certainly been rich enough.

 

                The Potter hair was a lost cause but growing it out a little might help it change from a birds’ nest to – as Sirius would put it – I-had-great-sex-last-night-and-you-missed-out.  The boy was almost fifteen, wasn't he?  Sirius had been ‘experimenting’ since he had hit third year back at school, much to their mother’s displeasure.

 

                “Hey, there’s your freak of a cousin, Big D!”

 

                Regulus flicked his gaze to the group of boys – sneering faces, superior smirks; they reminded him a little of the Marauders before Evans had finally managed to make them grow up a bit – approaching his brother’s godson.  Harry straightened and got to his feet, defiant as a Gryffindor as he watched the group of teens saunter over.

 

                Out of the four, Regulus noticed that only the biggest kid looked slightly nervous.

 

                “What do you want, Duddykins?”

 

                Regulus discreetly rolled his eyes at the goading, scornful tone.  Did the boy have no self-preservation?  No wonder he was a Gryffindor.

 

                “Ooh, Potty sounds like he’s grown a spine since last year,” One of the newcomers jeered, stepping forward and puffing himself up in an attempt to look intimidating.

 

                Regulus mentally snorted.

 

                “Big D’s been telling us about your little nightmares,” The boy continued, and Harry stiffened.  “And calling for your mummy and daddy too!  ‘Help me, Mummy, help me!’  But oh wait; you’re an _orphan_!”

 

                “ _Shut up_ ,” Harry snarled, right hand twitching, and Regulus knew the boy yearned to go for his wand.  The biggest boy – ‘Big D’ probably – shifted uneasily.  Ah, that must be the cousin.

 

                “Or what?”  Another boy stepped in, rat-faced and scrawny.  “You’ll scream for mummy to save you?”

 

                Raucous laughter filled the air, Harry turned even whiter, and Regulus had had enough.

 

                Harry Potter was the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter’s last scion and heir.  It was degrading enough to know that his own brother, head of the Black House, was being ordered about in his own ancestral home, and by that banshee woman to boot; it was even worse to see someone related to the Blacks – Dorea Potter née Black had been Regulus’ great-aunt – letting a couple of vulgar Muggles put him down without at least verbally flaying them in return.

 

                He had crossed over to the swing set in five long strides, ignoring the rustle of an invisibility cloak as Nymphadora took a few steps forward.  Regulus understood the need for secrecy but that didn't make him any less annoyed that the people supposedly guarding the boy wasn't protecting him from emotional abuse.

 

                “Excuse me, is there a problem here?”  Regulus interrupted smoothly despite the scratchy quality in his voice.  He came to a stop behind the group of bullies.

 

                The teens all whirled around, looking shifty-eyed when they saw that it was an adult, but they relaxed when they realized that Regulus was alone.

 

                Behind them, Harry looked surprised, anger and not-quite-hidden hurt dimming gradually as a slightly worried frown replaced it.

 

                “There’s no problem,” This time, it was ‘Big D’ who spoke with an ugly sneer.  “Leave if you know what’s good for you.”

 

                The boy even had the gall to crack his knuckles in what Regulus assumed was supposed to be a threatening manner.

 

                Regulus arched an eyebrow, staring coolly at the bulky teen until the kid began to squirm a little, bravado faltering.

 

                “I think it’s time for you boys to go home,” Regulus phrased it politely but there was no mistaking the undertone of steel in his voice.  Never let it be said he hadn't learned anything under his mother’s harsh tutelage on the regal bearing of a Black.

 

                “You think you can order us around-” The boy who had first ridiculed Harry started to move towards him.

 

                Regulus only pinned the kid with a cold flat look and cut him off.  “Yes, I do, now move along, boy.”

 

                Regulus knew their kind, knew that they were all talk and only picked on the weak.  Regulus, while not in top form, hadn't been a Death Eater for nothing.  He had killed before, and perhaps some of that showed in his expression because the uneasiness amongst the teens spread.

 

                However, they weren’t quite ready to give up just yet; the mouthy brat from before reached out and attempted to shove Regulus back.

 

                Needless to say, Regulus didn't let him, and just before the Muggle boy’s fingers touched his coat, he clamped a hand around the thick wrist and twisted deftly until the brat’s face crumpled in pain.

 

                Not yet broken but close enough.

 

                “I said,” Regulus repeated, still very quiet but in a voice that could freeze lava.  “ _Move along_.”

 

                He held on for a second longer before letting go, and the teens fled.

 

                Regulus inwardly scoffed derisively.  _Muggles_.  They were even worse than the Marauders; at least the Marauders had had the ability to stand their ground when confronted.

 

                He turned back to the remaining boy who drew back a little but offered an awkward smile.

 

                “Uh, thanks,” Harry hunched up, head bobbing.  “You didn't have to do that.”

 

                Regulus scrutinized him for a moment before shrugging.  “They were being rude so it was only right to cut in.  ...Straighten your posture, kid.  You even look like a bully victim standing like that.”

 

                A splash of red rose in Harry’s face but the kid hastily squared his shoulders.  Regulus nodded curtly before turning on his heel and returning to his bench, picking up his newspaper again.

 

                He watched as Harry hesitated, looking like he wasn't certain what to do next, but when Regulus made a great show of becoming immersed in his paper again, the boy gave him one last curious look before hurrying out of the park.

 

                Regulus waited until Nymphadora had also vacated the vicinity before getting up himself.

 

                Time to head back.  He hadn't gotten a very good read on Harry’s personality in their minutes-long interaction so maybe he’d come back another day to see if the kid would be in this park again.  It wouldn't do to appear in too many places around this neighbourhood, especially within throwing distance of Harry Potter.

 

                In the meantime, he had to focus on recovering some more before his magic would be up to conjuring fiendfyre on the locket that Kreacher had been unable to destroy but had faithfully kept it hidden for him for sixteen years.

 

**III.**

 

                “Another word for describing someone or something as daft; nine letters.”

 

                “Imbecilic.  Much like the world we live in.”

 

                Harry snickered and scribbled down the last word.  “You're pretty good at this.”

                Sitting beside him, the man waved a dismissive hand.  “More like this crossword is too easy.”

 

                “Too easy?”  Harry huffed incredulously.  “You got ‘apogeny’ and ‘adiaphoron’ earlier.  I didn't even know those were real words.”

 

                “You’re still young,” The man countered in a tone that would've been condescending if it hadn't been for the faint smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

 

                Harry just scowled good-naturedly as he folded up the paper once more.

 

                After that first day when the man beside him had defended him from Dudley and his cronies, Harry’s feet had led him back to the park the next day, and somehow or other, he’d managed to strike up a conversation with the stranger, partly out of curiosity and partly because the man had just felt... familiar for some reason.

 

Three days later, after a few near-unnoticeable stumbles on the stranger’s part whenever something really Muggle was brought up, Harry had taken a chance and had asked if his acquaintance was a wizard.

 

Or at least he had tried to ask, but before he could get half the words out, the man had thrust a crossword under his nose with the simple message ‘ _you are being watched’_ written under it.

 

Of course, Harry’s first instinct had been to jump up and pull his wand out but the man had delayed that reaction by engaging him in the crossword while also eyeing him with an exasperated gaze that told him not to give himself away.

 

And then the man had proceeded to write out three entire paragraphs about the Order of the Phoenix and Harry’s guards and the lack of activity from Voldemort’s end and the utter incompetence of the Ministry currently doing their level best to run a smear campaign against Harry himself.  All under the pretense of working on the crossword of course.

 

To say that the man had risen several hundred degrees in Harry’s eyes for _not_ keeping him in the dark would be an understatement of massive proportions.

 

Obviously though, Harry had had to ask – on paper – whether or not the man was part of this Order, and the man had denied it.  He’d merely told Harry that _Harry’s_ safety was important to him by proxy, and he’d decided to do a bit guard duty himself.

 

Harry rather suspected that there was something more than that, but the man hadn't tried to harm him yet, and judging by how easily he had been able to teach Harry to pick out where his Order guards were standing without letting them know, Harry figured that the man had had plenty of time to capture or kill him, and a measly protection detail wouldn't have been able to stop him.

 

From then on, afternoons were spent talking about magic or homework or doing crossword puzzles even after the man had begun erecting undetectable wards around them before Harry joined him so that the Order guard-of-the-day wouldn't be able to see them doing anything except pouring over a Muggle newspaper or chatting about inane subjects.

 

“You still haven’t given me your name, you know?”  Harry remarked.

 

“No I haven’t,” The man agreed easily.  “And you really shouldn't trust a complete stranger but here we are.”

 

“You're not a complete stranger,” Harry argued back.  “Besides, I told you, there’s something about you or maybe how you look-”

 

“I’m under a glamour,” The man reminded him.

 

“Well then, it’s something about you then that’s kind of familiar,” Harry insisted stubbornly.  “Why can’t you just give me a name?  I have to call you something.”

 

“...Because I'm technically dead, kid,” The man revealed sardonically as Harry’s mouth dropped open.  “They had a funeral for me and everything but I survived.  It’s better if I stay ‘dead’ though, and that’ll only happen if no one starts flinging my name around again after all these years.  I wasn't a very good person back then.”  He flashed a mirthless smirk that Harry could swear he had seen somewhere before.  “Still not a particularly good person now.”

 

Harry remembered to close his mouth, and then shook his head.  The man was always like that, throwing out a few tidbits and no more about himself every day, and Harry always hoarded them all away for later perusal.

 

“Now enough of that,” The man leaned back and crossed his arms in an imperious motion that suddenly reminded Harry of Lucius Malfoy.  “How are you getting on with Occlumency?”

 

That was another thing.  After Harry had found out that the man was a wizard, it had taken all of half an afternoon talking about Hogwarts for the man to calmly tell Harry that he was frankly surprised that his brain had not yet turned to mush with how little Harry was stimulating it.

 

Harry had been more than a little irritated at first at being called stupid (without actually being called stupid; the older wizard had to have been a Slytherin for sure), but then the man had proceeded to launch into a lecture on the finer points of Vanishment and Conjuration, as well as an assortment of charms and how to increase and decrease their strength levels, and Harry had been hooked.

 

Because the man was a veritable genius.

 

At school, Harry usually had little interest in schoolwork.  He did well enough but some of the classes, especially when McGonagall or Flitwick spent a solid week droning on about theory, well, it was more than a little boring.

 

But the older wizard made it interesting, and more than that, there were details that he stuck in that weren’t in any of Harry’s textbooks.

 

When asked about it, the man had admitted with smug pride, “I've done my own research in my time.  My grades at school were nothing to scoff at.”

 

And so the impromptu lessons had begun, though the man had insisted on Occlumency first.

 

“I’ll tell you now, Harry,” The man had said with a bitter twist of his lips.  “Dumbledore can read your mind.  So can Snape for that matter, and while I don’t know about the latter, I do know that your esteemed Headmaster loves poking around in other people’s heads.  All for the Greater Good of course.”

 

Seeing as Dumbledore had always seemed to know more than anyone else at any given time, Harry hadn't had much difficulty believing that, especially with how frustrated he was with the Headmaster this summer.

 

“I think I got the first layer of shields down,” He replied now, shifting to face the man.  “Could you check...?”

 

“That _is_ what I'm here for,” The man said wryly, and then grey eyes met Harry’s, and a gentle pressure slipped into his mind, probing at the shaky shields that Harry had managed to erect.

 

Minutes later, the man pulled back out, and Harry blinked the weird feeling away.  It was never painful but it was a bit strange to have someone else actively working in his head.

 

“They’re a good start,” The man announced.  “Keep up the meditation and begin reinforcing those shields.  Your scar’s better these days?”

 

Harry nodded.  That was another reason for the Occlumency.  When he had meandered into the park once after a sleepless night because his scar had felt like a brand on his forehead, it hadn't taken much for the older wizard to guess that it was a connection to Voldemort, which just made the Occlumency even more important.

 

“Why are you doing this anyway?”  Harry asked as he always did, crossing his legs on the bench.  “Helping me, I mean.  You have to admit, it’s kind of odd.”

 

“What’s odd is your willingness to trust that I'm only helping you,” The man returned, also not for the first time.

 

“You're familiar,” Harry reiterated, peering at the man.  “Are you sure I don’t know you?”

 

The older wizard sighed in a long-suffering manner.  “Quite sure, Harry.  ...I suppose I could tell you that we have a mutual acquaintance, though _he_ doesn't know I'm alive either, thank Merlin.”

 

“Why?”  Harry jumped on this piece of information as his brain went over all the people he knew.  “Do you not like each other?  It’s not _Snape_ , is it?”

 

The man snorted, and then paused.  “Well actually, he could be since I went to school with him, but that’s true for quite a few adults in your life.  So no, he’s not who I mean.”

 

Harry frowned in thought.  “...You were a Slytherin then?  You act like a Slytherin.  A Pureblood too.”

 

The man inclined his head.  “Yes to both.  Snape was a friend actually, even though he was almost two years older than me.  Or at least as much of a friend as anyone in Slytherin can ever be.”

 

Harry was horrified.  “You were _friends_ with _Snape_?”

 

Some of the good humour faded from the man’s face, and Harry instantly regretted his words.

 

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” He added hastily.  “It’s just... Snape hates me.”

 

“Not surprising,” The man acknowledged.  “He hated your father, though if there was one person he hated more than James Potter, it would be Sirius Black, and you're related to both.”

 

Harry weighed his next words for a moment before choosing carefully, “They say that Sirius Black is a Death Eater.”

 

The man hummed noncommittally.

 

Harry looked at him for a long moment.  “...Are _you_ a Death Eater?”

 

The man looked amused now.  “What a Gryffindor you are.  And if I say yes?  Will you run for the hills?”

 

“I don’t think I’d be able to get out of the park before you took me down, much less the hills,” Harry deadpanned, and the man released an uncharacteristic bark of laughter.

 

Harry blinked.  _That_ was familiar too.

 

“I was,” The man said, and Harry forgot all about it as concentrated on the topic at hand.  The older wizard’s grey eyes were distant now as they stared sightlessly ahead.  “A Death Eater.  Inner Circle too.  Worst decision of my life, and trust me when I say I’ve made quite a few bad ones.”

 

For a brief moment, Harry really did wonder if maybe this teacher-student-almost-friend relationship was a bad idea.  The older wizard had been a _Death Eater_ , for Merlin’s sake, and all the Death Eaters Harry knew were never good news for him.

 

But the man had been good to him, and hell, Harry had already let him into his _mind_.  There had been dozens of chances to capture or kill Harry over the past three weeks, and the man had never taken advantage of any of them.

 

(And if Harry was honest, a large part of him was just happy that someone had found him worth paying attention to.  Even the letters from his friends and godfather had held nothing useful, and the daily conversations with the older wizard served to take his mind off Cedric and the graveyard too.  Occlumency didn't hurt either.)

 

Besides, this made things easier.

 

“Then you know that Sirius wasn't a Death Eater, right?”  Harry blurted out.

 

The wizard didn't so much as bat an eye.  “Of course.  Pettigrew was the one who showed up now and then.  I never liked him even back in school.  Then again, I didn't much like Potter or Lupin either, or Black.”

 

“Why not?”  Harry asked curiously.  “Was it just because you were a Slytherin and they were Gryffindors?”

 

The man’s mouth pinched together as he glanced over at Harry.  “Do you want the truth or a pretty lie?  Because I guarantee that you won’t like the truth.”

 

“...The truth,” Harry said firmly.

 

Something like approval flashed briefly in the older wizard’s eyes.  “Before Evans – your mother – straightened them out, the Marauders were both pranksters and bullies.  Most of the time, their pranks were relatively harmless, but when it came to Slytherins, well, sometimes, they could be cruel, especially Potter and Black.  They’d pick students out and mortify them in public, laugh about it, and make other people laugh, and it just made House rivalry even worse.  They even made a few younger Slytherins cry once or twice, though obviously, they hid it until they were back in the privacy of their dorms.  Lupin certainly didn't have enough of a spine to stop his friends, and Pettigrew isn’t even worth mentioning.”

 

Harry’s first instinct was to deny it.  They were his father and godfather after all, not to mention Lupin had been a good friend of theirs, and what little he’d heard about them had always been good.

 

But he bit his tongue and thought about it.  The man had never lied to him to date, and he had said that the Marauders’ pranks were harmless most of the time, which sounded like an unbiased assessment, even if it was hard to hear that they had been bullies too.

 

Harry hated bullies.  To think that his own father had been one...

 

“You're a lot like your mother,” The man commented when Harry only scowled down at his hands.

 

Harry’s head snapped back up.  “Huh?  Wait, what?”

 

“‘I beg your pardon’, not ‘huh’ or ‘what’,” The man corrected somewhat automatically.  “Don’t be so uncouth.”  He paused before muttering, “Wonderful, now I sound like Mother.”

 

He sighed but forged on.  “I said – you're a lot like your mum.  Evans always tried to listen to both sides before judging, fair even to the Slytherins, especially after she became a prefect.”

 

“My- My mother was a prefect?”  Harry asked, a little dazed.

 

The man frowned.  “No one ever told you?  Your mother was a prefect and Head Girl; your father was Head Boy.  Lupin was also a prefect, and Si- Black was neither.”

 

Harry was silent for a long moment, lost in thought, before asking almost tentatively, “Can you... tell me more about them?  I know you weren’t friends but you seem to know a bit about them...”

 

The man eyed him with a momentarily soft gaze before nodding once.  “Let’s see then... Quidditch; you like Quidditch, don’t you?  Your father was a Chaser, Black was a Beater, and Lupin often did the commentary.  Always snuck in his own anecdotes every match and made McGonagall lose her temper at least three times a year with some of the remarks he made.”

 

“Lupin?”  Harry asked in disbelief, trying to imagine his third-year DADA professor acting like Lee Jordan.

 

The older wizard cocked his head.  “I take it he’s not like that anymore?  Well, everyone changes, but he _was_ a Marauder for a reason.

 

“The Marauders as a whole racked up a tremendous number of detentions over the years but they were excellent students as well.  I wasn't in any classes with them obviously but I heard that Potter was outstanding in Transfiguration and Defence while your mother excelled in Charms and Potions.  Not that they didn't do quite well in other subjects but they shone in those particular areas.  Lupin was the academic sort as well but he had a knack for Arithmancy, and he had disturbingly good marks in History despite having Binns as a teacher.  Black was also quite good at a number of subjects, though he preferred Defence and Charms, and he took Muggle Studies just to infuriate his family.

 

“Then there was the fact that your mother hated your father for a solid five and a half years before Potter finally pulled his head out of his arse and grew up enough to..."

 

And that was how they spent the rest of the afternoon, and Harry found it sad that he had to rely on a man who he didn't even know the name of to find out more about his parents, yet at the same time, he was glad that there was someone who was willing to tell him about them at all.

 

**IV.**

 

                “Try again; just remember to focus on where you’re going.”

 

                Harry nodded determinedly, took a deep breath, and turned on his heel again, disappearing with a faint pop and feeling a squeeze around his middle before reappearing again three feet away.

 

                He grinned and spun to face his teacher.  “I did it!”

 

                The older wizard inclined his head with a small smile on his face.  “Nicely done.  Remember to hold on to that feeling.  In addition to splinching, you don’t want to be Apparating or Disapparating like other wizards do with that ridiculously loud crack.”

 

                Harry nodded resolutely, and then snuck a peek over at where his Order guard was standing in the shade of a tree.  “Who is it today?”

 

                “Vance, I believe,” The man said briskly.  “Don’t worry; she can only see and hear what the wards show her.”

 

                “Can you teach me those wards sometime?”  Harry asked hopefully.  They seemed rather useful.

 

                The man smiled fleetingly.  “You take Care and Divination.  To learn warding, you need Arithmancy and Runes, and since you're already going into your fifth year come September, it’s a bit too late to switch.  You take your OWLs this year after all.”

 

                Harry grimaced.  Maybe he shouldn't have taken the same electives as Ron after all.  He’d stick with Care of Magical Creatures because of Hagrid but it wasn't as if Divination had ever done him any good.  Now he was regretting it.

 

                “I could give you some books if you wish,” The man interjected.  “You can start studying on the side if you truly have such an ambition to learn.”

 

                Harry nodded immediately.  After hearing how both his parents – especially his mother – had been top students in school, he had found that he no longer wanted to stay at the average that he had been pulling, not to mention his teacher would undoubtedly be disappointed with him.

 

                Eyeing a patch of grass five feet away, Harry exhaled and then Apparated once more, grinning with satisfaction at the near lack of sound and overall success.

 

                Four weeks with an ex-Death Eater and he was already breaking the law and not caring.  Apparition was illegal until he got his licence at seventeen at the earliest but apparently, Apparating was like driving a car; if you weren’t caught by the police, then nothing was really stopping you if you knew how to do it.

 

                “So do I get a prize for learning Apparition?”  Harry joked as he flopped down on the bench.

 

                His teacher sat down much more elegantly, a glint of amusement in his eyes.  “I suppose so, if it’s a reasonable request.”

 

                Harry did a double-take.  “Really?  I don’t even have to think about it.  I want to know your name.”

 

                The older wizard blinked before sighing in resignation, and Harry inwardly crowed in triumph.  “...Reg.  Or Reggie.”

 

                Harry cocked his head.  “...Reg.  That... doesn't fit.”

 

                The man – Reg?  Seriously? – chuckled.  “Both are nicknames, though only a handful of people have ever called me either.  You may as well.”

 

                Harry wasn't sure whether or not to be flattered about this.  “So you won’t tell me your real name then?  Is it because our mutual acquaintancewould know it?”

 

                Reg just shrugged.  “It is not a common name so quite a number of people would know it.”

 

                Harry glanced at him.  “But why don’t you want people to know?  I mean I'm pretty sure Snape was a Death Eater-”

 

                “He was,” Reg said rather bluntly.

 

                “I knew it,” Harry muttered darkly but didn't dwell on it.  It wasn't as if it was news that Snape could be as hate-inducing as a Death Eater; the man fit the bill perfectly.  “Anyway, _he_ got off scot-free, and he’s allowed in a school full of children.”

 

                “He’s got Dumbledore’s backing though,” Reg countered in a hard voice.  “Which means Dumbledore’s holding something over his head.  I’d rather die than become that twinkle-eyed puppet-master’s lapdog.”

 

                Harry blinked.  This wasn't the first time that Reg had touched on his dislike for the Headmaster but he’d never said why.  Would Dumbledore really stoop to _blackmail_ of all things?

 

                “It would be like trading one master for another,” Reg cut in cynically.  “And I’ve had enough of serving other people for one lifetime.”

 

                Harry watched as Reg’s hand unconsciously drifted to his left forearm.

 

                “Can I see it?”  The words were out before Harry could stop them, and he earned himself another quicksilver flash of amusement from Reg.

 

                “You inherited Evans’ nosiness,” Reg announced, but after a second’s contemplation, he scooted over a little and tugged up the left sleeves of his coat, sweater, and shirt.  Taking out his wand, he tapped it once against his forearm, and the glamour in that area dissipated.

 

                (When Harry was back at Hogwarts and could use magic again, he was going to learn the Glamour Charm if it killed him.  Altering his appearance and hiding his scar was dead useful in public.)

 

                “Most people say I'm like my dad,” Harry confessed as he peered down cautiously at the snake-and-skull tattoo.  It was the first time he had ever seen it up close but the most startling thing to him was how thin and pale Reg’s arm was.  Harry could actually see the wrist bones jutting out as if the man had been sick recently and had lost a lot of weight.

 

He mentally shook his head and promised himself that he’d sneak a late lunch out from under his aunt’s nose starting tomorrow to give to Reg.

 

The Mark itself stood out starkly against the pallid skin.  It was black but the colour was faint as if whatever connection it had with Voldemort was hanging by a thread.

 

                “Most people would be wrong,” Regulus scoffed patronizingly, astonishingly patient as Harry continued studying the man’s forearm.  “I suppose you do look remarkably like James Potter, except for the eyes, and you've told me you're an excellent flyer, but from what I've seen over the past few weeks, your personality leans more towards that of your mother’s.  You certainly have her work ethic.  When you choose to apply yourself to your studies anyway.”

 

                Harry flushed a little, embarrassed and proud in equal measure.  He’d never say it out loud but now that he knew more about his parents, that was probably the best compliment anyone had ever paid him.

 

                “Why isn’t it darker?”  Harry enquired, focusing on the Mark once more.  “Now that Voldemort’s back and all.”

 

                Reg withdrew, recasting the glamour and rolling down his sleeves again.  Harry couldn't help noticing the minute shiver that wracked the man’s frame even though the sun was high in the sky and Reg was wearing at least three layers.

 

                “People thought I died for a reason,” Reg explained.  “I did come quite close to death, so my best guess would be that that was enough to weaken the Mark’s hold on my magical core.”

 

                Harry frowned in alarm.  “That thing is connected to your magical core?”

 

                Reg inclined his head.  “Yes, it’s Dark magic, and it binds us to the Dark Lord until the day we die so that he can summon us whenever he wishes, as well as feed on our magic if he ever has the need to.”

 

                Harry reeled back in horror.  “Well- Can’t you remove it?!  What if Voldemort finds out you're alive?  He’ll kill you, won’t he?  Since you've left his side.”

 

                Reg looked startled for a moment at Harry’s vehement concern (Harry didn't know why; it was a _valid_ concern) before offering a rare, almost fond smile that made Harry’s ears burn.

 

                “For a Potter, you turned out alright,” Reg conceded.  “You need not worry; I'm already working on a solution.  It’s too weak to do much of anything right now anyway so I will be fine until I can remove it.”

 

                “Oh, okay,” Harry released a breath of relief.  “You’ll tell me once it’s off, won’t you?  Or if you need help with anything?  Not that I’d be much help but still.”

 

                Reg acquiesced with a nod.  “I will, but nothing should go wrong.”

 

                They lapsed into a companionable silence after that, Reg staring with mild contempt at the invisible Vance while Harry mulled over how much his life had changed in the span of four weeks.  Having someone to talk to and take him seriously made all the difference.  At the beginning of summer, all he had been able to think about was Cedric ( _dead_ ) and Voldemort ( _who had risen again_ ) and nightmares of cemeteries and death.  The lack of anything concrete from his friends only served to upset him and make him even angrier, and the pain in his scar hadn't helped matters.

 

                And then Reg had come along out of the blue, and yeah, Harry knew that he really should’ve been more wary of the man instead of simply trusting his gut instinct and letting the wizard close, especially with Reg being a former but still confirmed _Death Eater_ , yet the wizard certainly didn't remind Harry of Snape or Crouch or even Mr. Malfoy with the exception of that subtle Pureblood countenance, and even then, Reg didn't act all high and mighty like all the Malfoys did.

 

And ever since Harry had met him, Reg had always been an odd combination of adult and peer.  Most of the time, the older wizard would be Harry’s teacher, guiding him through Occlumency and Apparition, assisting him with his homework, and even giving him a few books on jinxes and hexes to read that all had Reg’s handwriting in the margins, depicting tips on wand movements and elaborating on new spells derived from variations of the ones already in the texts.

 

                But then, strangely enough, there would be the occasional handful of times when Reg would act closer to Harry’s age, perhaps a few years older, and that part of the wizard helped Harry see past the grownup.

 

                So with someone who was an adult but also seemed like he wasn't too old to relate to a teenager, Harry figured that he really couldn't be blamed for confiding a few of his worst nightmares to Reg.

 

                The first time Harry had mumbled something about the cemetery and Cedric, Reg had looked somewhere between highly unnerved and downright terrified like he wasn't at all used to dealing with teenage angst but the man had listened anyway, and at the end, Reg hadn't pushed him to talk about it anymore than what Harry had been willing to say.

 

                Harry had been pathetically grateful for that because he already had Hermione urging him to write to her about his feelings on the matter, and that by doing so, it would help him with his mental trauma.

 

                Needless to say, Harry hadn't done any such thing, especially when she – and Ron – hadn't stopped ignoring all his questions in favour of ‘let’s talk about what you went through in June’ and ‘keep your head down’ messages.  After meeting Reg, Harry had already written that he didn't need to talk about his ordeal in June with them (without actually telling them about _Reg_ of course), and as for keeping his head down, well what did they think he was going to do?  Skip out of Little Whinging and go on a hunt for Voldemort?

 

                Harry snorted to himself, shaking his head and glancing at Reg who was watching a Muggle couple – a boy with a cigarette hanging between his fingers and a giggling vapid-looking girl hanging off his free arm – with muted revulsion.

 

                “You don’t like Muggles, huh?”  Harry asked, not really surprised.

 

                Reg met his gaze evenly.  “No, I don’t.  They have no magic, and if they ever find out about us, they will lash out and try to kill us all, simply because they are jealous or afraid or both.  They outnumber us so they would eradicate us, one way or another.”

 

                Harry grimaced at the outcome Reg painted.  He could actually see it as well; he _had_ grown up with the Dursleys after all.  Still, he felt like he should say something in their overall populace’s defence.  “Not all Muggles are bad though.”

 

                “I am aware,” Reg acknowledged a little stiffly.  “It is not because they are Muggles that they will lash out; it is because it is human nature to fear what they cannot understand.  In this, wizards are no different than Muggles, but between us and them, I’d choose us.”

 

Harry nodded slowly.  “What about Muggleborns?”

 

                Reg’s face blanked.  “My parents raised me with the belief that Muggleborns and half-bloods are beneath us, but personally, I am indifferent to them.  Magic is magic in the end.  I would not be talking to you otherwise.”

 

                Harry smiled somewhat sheepishly.  That was a good point.  Still, it was nice to have confirmation that Reg didn't have any prejudices against them.  The older wizard probably _had_ once upon a time but he’d obviously changed his way of thinking, and that was good enough for Harry.

 

                “Voldemort is a half-blood too,” Harry disclosed, but to his surprise, Reg only nodded.

 

                “I know,” The wizard sounded wry.  “That was one of the reasons that helped changed my mind about blood purity.  The Dark Lord’s strength is formidable, and clearly more powerful than any pureblood I can think of off the top of my head.”

 

                Harry nodded again, and then ventured, “What happened to you?  Why did you leave the Death Eaters?  I don’t think most people do.”

 

                Reg was silent for a long minute, features closed off, but he did eventually answer.  “Most people choose not to defect from Voldemort’s cause because they either truly believe in it or they are too afraid to do so once they are in.  You cannot resign from the Death Eaters, or retire.  The only way you leave them is through death.  You serve until you are dead, and more often than not, your progeny will take your place after that.  The only reason I managed it is because I _was_ prepared to die.  It was only... the loyalty of a friend that prevented it.”

 

                “They must be a good friend then,” Harry remarked, thinking of Hermione – who had always been loyal even though she tended to nag a lot – and then of Ron – who had betrayed him once already but had still come back.

 

                “He is,” A smile graced Reg’s face.  “He was the only friend I had who stuck with me to the very end, and still does to this day.”  He stopped for a moment, and then blanched as if he had tasted something horrible.  “Merlin help me, that just made me sound like a bloody Gryffindor.”

 

Harry couldn't bite back a snicker.  “Or a Hufflepuff,” He pointed out, smirking when Reg’s eyebrows twitched with irritation.

 

“Quiet, brat, or you’ll leave me mentally scarred,” The older wizard retorted but there was no heat behind his words.  “Then again, I always knew spending time with Gryffindors would deplete my IQ through proximity alone so I have no one to blame but myself.”

 

Harry just grinned.  Even now, a part of him couldn't believe that he could even smile much less joke around but despite the fact that Reg wasn't one for talking a lot (teaching aside), the man had a quick wit and a dry humour, and had patience in spades when describing concepts to Harry without making Harry feel like a little kid who couldn't understand anything.

 

“The sun’s setting,” Reg observed, stretching before getting to his feet.  “I must be going, and you should too.”

“Right,” Harry tried hard not to show his disappointment that another day was over.  Honestly, his afternoons were the highlights of his summer nowadays, though at least he had all the extra books to read back at the Dursleys.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

Reg’s hand extended towards Harry’s head as if he was about to ruffle his hair, but the older wizard aborted the gesture a second later and offered a simple nod instead.  “Yes, until tomorrow, Harry.”

 

As they stepped away from the bench, the wards around them melted away without Vance any the wiser.  She would only have seen Harry and Reg finishing their conversation and getting up to leave, and Harry resolved himself to learn all he could from the books that Reg would be giving him.  Perhaps McGonagall would be willing to let him drop Divination and take up Runes in sixth year if he could somehow catch up.  And he could self-study for Arithmancy; that subject was basically like math and Harry had always been good at that subject.

 

He waved goodbye to Reg one more time as they exited the park before parting ways.  For once in his life since he could remember, he actually wasn't looking forward to leaving Privet Drive.

 

                Would wonders never cease.

 

**V.**

 

                Staring down at the now melted lump of charcoal that Salazar Slytherin’s locket had been reduced to, Regulus smiled, dark and satisfied.  One down, at least three to go.

 

                The Dark Lord, as Regulus had found out all those years ago, had a rather unwise penchant for monologuing to himself and his inner circle, and while Voldemort hadn't told any of them about the Horcruxes, he _had_ dropped enough hints about immortality and ‘safeguards’ for Regulus to take a good guess.  And back then, after months of careful eavesdropping on a few conversations between Bellatrix and Lucius, as well as piecing together everything he had managed to glean from Kreacher’s account of his trip with the Dark Lord with everything _else_ he had already learned, he knew that both Bella and Lucius had one Horcrux in each of their possession, Bella’s most likely in her vault since she would never leave it lying around in her husband’s house, and Lucius’ probably in his mansion.

 

He also knew that Voldemort had made another Horcrux with an object that had belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw, and had then left it at Hogwarts.  He had come by that piece of information through pure chance; the Dark Lord had said something along the lines of ‘I have left my mark even at Hogwarts’ right after he had bragged (yet again) about having safeguards, and while the other Death Eaters in the room at the time – Bella who was insane and could trump Regulus in a duel any day of the year but wasn't exactly the smartest of witches and would never question her lord anyway, Mulciber Senior who was dead now, and Avery Senior who was also dead – had been too busy marvelling at the Dark Lord’s claims of immortality, Regulus – who had only been there because he had been called in to wait at the door and later ordered to retrieve the Lestranges for Voldemort; it was nice to be overlooked as someone who could never pose a threat – had understood the meaning behind those words.

 

                So, the locket which he had just destroyed, something under Lucius’ protection which was going to take a hell of a lot of planning and luck to get to, another under Bella’s protection which was going to take a _monumental_ amount of planning, outrageous luck, and a death wish or ten for good measure, and one more somewhere in Hogwarts.

 

                And _that_ was assuming that Voldemort had only made four.

 

                Which Regulus seriously doubted because the Dark Lord was just _that_ crazy.  The snake-man had probably made more.

 

                Regulus heaved a sigh and dropped into the armchair beside the fire crackling in the hearth, leaving the locket sitting on the burnt patch of carpet on the ground.

 

                He wasn't cut out for this sort of thing, being _Gryffindor_ and _courageous_ and _heroic_.  He wasn't brave like Sirius, who was bold enough to refuse Slytherin House despite tradition and expectations, and fearless enough to go against their parents despite their threats, and daring enough to fight for his own ideals despite the danger.

 

                Before Sirius had left for Hogwarts, Regulus had always had his big brother to protect him from thunderstorms and screaming mothers and Crucios, but once Sirius had turned eleven, Regulus had been left to fend for himself, and he had found himself floundering, caving under Walburga Black’s demands and heavy wand hand.

 

                And then Potter had happened, and Regulus hadn't been lying to Harry when he had told the boy that he had disliked James Potter, and not just because he had turned Sirius against Regulus in their pranks, stringing him up by his ankles to the ceiling until a professor came along to free him, humiliating him in the Great Hall by vanishing his clothes so that he had been left standing in nothing but his boxers, and Sirius had _laughed_.  Regulus hadn't even gotten an apology.  He had still been young enough to want to be comforted though, and Cissa had been the one to hug him and hex Sirius and even Potter for him afterwards.

 

But what really stung when it came to James Potter was how he had taken Sirius away from Regulus.  His brother had written a few letters to him that first year he had been away, and Regulus had cherished every last one of them, especially after he had accidentally done something to displease his mother – again – and had been cursed for it ( _“Consider this training, Regulus, for when you join the Dark Lord’s glorious cause, and you must be able to stand a little pain.  Now get up and stop whimpering.”_ ), but those had slowly dwindled, and then, come summer, Sirius had returned, and everything had been different.  It was always Hogwarts and James and pranks and James and the Marauders and _my best friend, practically my brother, James_ , and Regulus had hated the Potter scion before he had even met him.

 

He took a deep breath.  Now wasn't the time to dredge up old grudges, especially against a dead man.  He had even done his best so far to give Harry an unbiased opinion of James Potter in his accounts, not wanting to turn the kid against his father.  After all, Potter hadn't been a _bad_ man per se; he had been good to the people he had cared about.  Besides, Regulus was thirty-four, far too old to be holding on to so much resentment, for all that he sometimes still felt like he was only eighteen years old.

 

It was that reason that made Regulus feel both pleased and uncomfortable whenever Harry looked at him with undisguised appreciation, all because he had shown the kid some genuine attention.  On one hand, he had never had anyone look up to him before, and it was a heady feeling, but at the same time, Regulus had never meant to get close to the kid either.  At the beginning, even if they talked, he had expected that they’d simply share a few words now and then, but before he had consciously realized it, Regulus was already teaching Harry some of the things he knew and listening to the teen even when the conversation material had been purely inconsequential to anything directly related to Regulus.

 

He hadn't thought the boy would be so easy to get along with.  After all, Harry was Potter’s son, yet it hadn't taken long for Evans to shine through as well.

 

Lily Evans had been Muggleborn and Gryffindor, two things that every Slytherin who didn't want to be shunned by his own House automatically hated, yet when it came to Evans, even most of the more zealous purebloods would grudgingly admit – though never publicly – that she was someone worth respecting.  Smart without being solely book-oriented, clever enough to be cunning when it came to verbal blows between her and the Marauders, open-minded and fair even towards the worst of Slytherins no matter how badly they sneered at her or how much she personally detested them, but still strict and unforgiving when it came to punishing the guilty parties no matter which House they were in.

 

People like her were born once in a blue moon yet Regulus could see some of her in her son.  Some of Harry's Slytherin prejudice slipped through when he talked about Cissa's boy but it sounded as if young Draco had practically started every altercation, and Regulus was certain that Harry would dislike that kid just as much even if Draco had been Sorted into Gryffindor.  If Regulus could curb that growing aversion now, then maybe it wouldn't spread to the rest of the Slytherins without just cause.

 

                A crack stirred him from his thoughts, and Regulus glanced to the side as Kreacher appeared, fuming as he always seemed to be after dealing with the people currently running amok in Grimmauld Place.

 

                “Mudbloods and blood traitors are desecrating Master Regulus’ home!”  The old elf wailed, wringing his hands.  “The mudblood girl was just trying to break in to Master Regulus’ book collection in the library!”

 

                Regulus’ eyes narrowed.  He had nothing against Muggleborns, and the girl obviously couldn't have known, but that didn't mean he wasn't irritated that someone was trying to touch his personal belongings, especially his books.  It was under lock and key and wards for a reason, and the only reason that particular set of books had still been stored on the first floor of the library was because the material in them weren’t predominantly Dark, not to mention the books themselves – while enjoyable – weren’t among his top favourites.

 

                “Did you manage to move them?”  He asked, frowning.

 

                Kreacher nodded vigorously.  “Of course; Master Regulus’ books are safe.  Kreacher moved the collection to the second floor when the mudblood went to find Master Regulus’ brother to open the case for her.”

 

                Regulus smiled.  “Good job, Kreacher, thank you.”

 

                Kreacher smiled back, and then scowled and popped away once more, presumably called by Sirius to enquire about the missing case of books.

 

                Regulus wasn't worried.  He was still a Black despite theorizing that his heart had temporarily stopped when the Inferi had gotten hold of him, which was why his death date had appeared on the family tapestry.  But since he was still alive, there were technically two lords of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black now, and unless Sirius demanded directly with absolutely no room for voluntary misinterpretation (and Sirius had never been very good at covering loopholes whereas Kreacher was a virtuoso at finding them), then Regulus’ orders would take precedence for Kreacher.

 

                Aside from that, Sirius had also ran away from Grimmauld Place a year before he had come of age, so he hadn't been shown all the secret passages and rooms in their ancestral home, which included the guest wing that Regulus was currently living in, the two extra floors of the library, and countless passageways snaking throughout the house.  There was even a set of potions labs in the basement hidden away by their father since there were rare ingredients stored inside and he hadn't wanted his children to accidentally – or purposefully – get their hands into them until they had at least become legal adults.

 

                Sirius may be the official Lord Black now but Regulus was the one who knew the family’s secrets, their charters with allied families, and the sum capital and contents of the Black vaults as well as their yearly income and investments despite no longer being able to get into them without drawing attention to himself.

 

                He glanced down at the Horcrux once more before flicking his wand at it.

 

                The locket vanished, reappearing on the top bookshelf at the other end of the room.  It was just a lump of melted metal now.

 

                With a sigh, Regulus got to his feet again, lips thinning when he felt himself waver before steadying properly.  He was still weak, especially after that controlled fiendfyre he had produced.

 

                Moving across the room, he paused beside an empty portrait frame, and then tapped it with his wand.  The inside of the frame shimmered before clearing, and Regulus winced as a loud overbearing voice abruptly filled his ears.

 

                “Sirius, make yourself useful and go upstairs and get that second drawing room cleaned, won’t you?  This place is such a mess.”

 

                Regulus’ lip curled as he watched his brother glower at the Weasley woman’s expectant dismissal but obediently slouched out of the kitchen in the end, grumbling under his breath.

 

                Pitiful.  Had Azkaban truly reduced Sirius Black into this?  Being ordered about in his own house by someone who was really just a guest and should – _at the very least_ – have the common courtesy to act accordingly?  But no, Molly Weasley bustled through Grimmauld Place as if she was the Lady of the House, and Regulus was even more disgusted by the fact that her husband – _Lord_ of the House of Weasley even though _that_ family had left almost all the olde customs behind – allowed her to do as she pleased.

 

                Regulus didn’t care if Arthur Weasley wished to treat his wife as his equal; hell, he approved of having a spouse that wasn’t just decoration at the patriarch’s side.  He had thanked Merlin when Cissa had assured him that Lucius respected and listened to her opinions, and was a softer man to his family behind closed doors.

 

                But Arthur Weasley didn’t treat his wife as an equal; rather, from what Regulus had seen, the man had no spine when it came to reprimanding her when she was out of line, as she had been ever since she had stepped foot in the Blacks’ ancestral home.

 

                Mouth twisting, Regulus tapped the one-way mirror once more, and the image blanked out again.  He always made it a point to not watch the goings-on in the rest of the house for too long for fear of being too tempted to storm out there and give his brother a good wakeup shake.  Sirius had never been this passive even in the face of their mother, _especially_ their mother, and Walburga Black was about a thousand times more terrifying than Molly Weasley.

 

                Turning his attention to his arm next, he prodded his Dark Mark cautiously.  This wretched tattoo was next on his project list.  He had a vague idea on the complicated chain of spells needed to get rid of it but he needed a more thorough understanding of the procedure before he tried it; he didn't want to inadvertently damage his arm or blast it off completely.

 

                So, to the library.

 

**VI.**

 

                “Memorize these basic runes,” Regulus instructed.  “They’re like the English alphabet.  Once you know them, you’ll be able to put them together to form bigger and stronger runes to power your wards.  I’ll check over your Arithmancy equations while you're doing that.”

 

                Harry nodded, exchanging the newest assignment that Regulus had given him two days ago with the chart that Regulus had drawn up last night.

 

                The kid was brilliant at Arithmancy.  Regulus had no idea why Harry hadn't chosen that as an elective back in third year when he clearly had such a natural talent for it.

 

                An elbow nudging at his arm made him look up, and he sighed when he caught the meaningful rise of Harry’s eyebrows and not-very-subtle glance between Regulus and the chicken sandwich wrapped in ser-ran currently sitting uneaten in his lap.  For some reason, the boy had started bringing food with him to these visits five days ago.  Did Regulus seem hungry or something?

 

                With a long-suffering sigh, Regulus unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite, ignoring the triumphant grin on Harry’s face as the boy went back to his bowl of chilli.  He still wasn't very hungry these days but the kid had gone to the trouble of bringing him food, and Regulus knew that Harry's home life wasn't great, so he always tried to eat some of it but only if Harry ate some of the food _Regulus_ had taken to bringing as well.  Teenagers usually ate more food at this age, and Harry always looked a little thinner than was strictly healthy.  Kreacher was grudgingly happy to prepare a variety of foods for Regulus to take with him every day, still not liking the fact that Harry was a half-blood but willing to make an exception for the kid because Kreacher had gotten into his head the idea that he had gained an ally in his ‘Get Master Regulus to Eat’ campaign.

 

                (Between shooting both of them exasperated looks and musing to himself over which one of them was more troublesome, Regulus had found out that Harry’s favourite dessert was treacle tart as well.)

 

                Crack!

 

                Regulus’ wand was out and he was on his feet before Harry’s head had even jerked up from the Runes chart.

 

                “What was that?!”  The kid yelped, scrambling to his feet as well and tugging out his own wand.  “It sounded like a car backfiring!”

 

                “Someone just Apparated,” Regulus informed him calmly, still scanning the area.

 

                “ _That’s_ what normal Apparition sounds like?”  Harry looked bewildered.  “People from two streets over can hear that!  What if you want to get away undetected?”

 

                “Yes, that _is_ why I invented my own version,” Regulus replied sardonically.  “Now hush.  Hmm... never mind what I said before, someone just _Dis_ apparated.  Fletcher’s gone.”

 

                “Did something happen to him?”  Harry asked anxiously, still looking around.  “I thought it was his turn to tail me today.”

 

                Regulus scoffed disdainfully, lowering his wand but not putting it away.  “Mundungus Fletcher idling an entire afternoon away in a Muggle suburb when he could be off selling his illegal wares?  There’s a reason he takes the least shifts when it comes to guarding you; even the Order of the Roasted Duck knows better than to assign him more than a few hours as your protection detail.  My guess is that some sort of bargain was struck today right at this time and it was too good for him to pass up.”

 

                Harry had spluttered out a laugh at the name Regulus had tagged the Order with but he sobered again quickly enough.  “So what should we do?  He’ll come back sooner or later, right?  Do we just go back to what we were doing?”

 

                Regulus didn't respond right away, still dissecting the park for impending threats.  For some reason, the alarm bells in his head hadn't stopped ringing, and there was something a lot like dread in his stomach, a sickening uneasy feeling that brought up memories of killing sprees and Inferi and the Dark Lord’s malicious laughter, all the things that scared Regulus most.

 

                “I don’t want to risk it,” He finally decided, still keeping an eye out as he motioned for Harry to pack up.  “Something feels wrong.  The sun’s going down anyway so grab your things; I want you behind your mother’s blood wards as soon as possible.”

 

                Harry nodded at once, hastily gathering up his homework and stuffing it all into the worn-looking bag he had been using to carry his homework to the park.  Regulus hurried things up by jabbing his wand at the half-eaten food, sealing the chilli in its container and floating it over to Harry before sending his own sandwich and the sheaf of Arithmancy assignments back to his rooms in Grimmauld Place.

 

                “Ready?”  He asked, letting the wards around them fall even as Harry slung his bag over one shoulder and nodded.  “Okay, come on.  Quickly.”

 

                They made it out of the park and halfway down Magnolia Road before it happened.

 

                The orange-red sunset sky darkened all at once, dimming until there was absolutely no light left.  The streetlamps that had started flickering on for the evening had also disappeared, and the distant rumble of cars and whisper of trees had gone.  Even worse for Regulus, the evening had suddenly become piercingly, bitingly cold, and in his mind’s eye, he could see the cave again, the water closing over his head as the Inferi dragged him down.

 

They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire street, blinding them.

 

Just like the cave and the lake and the clammy grasping hands-

 

“Reg?”  Came Harry’s nervous whisper, and it served as an anchor for Regulus, yanking him back out of the memories he had been succumbing to.  “Reg, do you know what’s happening?”

 

Regulus drew in a shuddering breath, and when he felt his brother’s godson’s hand brush against the sleeve of his coat, just missing the crook of his elbow, he swallowed hard and reached out blindly to clasp Harry’s wrist in his hand.  He didn't want the boy to go running off in a random direction or something equally stupid.

 

“Dementors,” Regulus croaked, clearing his throat as he pulled Harry to his side.  The teen didn't seem to mind, crowding even closer without hesitation.  “Dementors in Little Whinging.”

 

“What?!”  Harry gasped from somewhere next to Regulus’ shoulder.  “That’s impossible!”

 

“Yes, it should be,” Regulus said grimly as he strained to see through the pitch black world around them.  He flicked his wand and the tip lit up, shedding some light to their surroundings.  “If I didn't know better, I’d say Fletcher planned this but your godfather at least would bury him if he had, not to mention he doesn't have the means to pull this off.  This is just very bad timing.”

 

“So what do we do?”  Harry muttered, wand pointed in front of him.  “I hate Dementors but if it comes down to it, I can produce a Patronus.”

 

Regulus did a double-take.  “You can?  Corporeal?”

“Yeah, learned it in third year,” There was a faint smile in Harry’s voice.  “Professor Lupin taught me.”

 

Regulus grunted, silently impressed, and he didn't impress easily.  Even he hadn't been able to produce a Patronus until fifth year for his OWL, and now...

 

Well, he’d be surprised if he still could.

 

“Harry, listen to me,” Regulus said instead, shuddering as the air got even colder.  “Do _not_ cast any magic unless you absolutely have to.  The Ministry hates you right now; if you do magic, they will use this excuse to tear you apart.”

 

“But it would be for self-defence!”  Harry protested weakly.

 

Ah, to be that naive again.  Regulus tightened his grip on the kid’s wrist.  “The Ministry _doesn't care_.  They’ll take any pretext they can to discredit you, make you seem crazy even, all to convince the wizarding world that the Dark Lord _isn’t_ back.  That’s how stupidly scared they are.  Besides, it’s unbelievable enough for Dementors to appear in-”

 

Regulus stopped as the pieces clicked into place in his head.  “Damn.”

 

“Reg?”  Harry even looked alarmed now.  Regulus rarely swore.

 

“They sent them,” Regulus comprehended softly.  “Someone from the Ministry sent-”

 

He cut himself off, inhaling a lungful of ice as the chilling sound of long, hoarse, rattling breaths reached their ears from somewhere behind them.  They whirled around, and there they were, two towering, hooded figures gliding towards them, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath their robes, sucking on the night as they came.

 

Regulus felt like he was drowning all over again.

 

No.  He clenched his teeth.  He had his brother’s godson to take care of.  He raised his wand, thinking of Sirius, but all he could see was his brother’s angry face, sixteen and shouting and leaving Regulus behind.  “Ex- Expecto Patronum.”

 

Not even mist.  Bloody fuck.

 

He thought again even as the taste of despair invaded his tongue, and this time, he recalled Cissa’s hugs and Andy’s affectionate smiles, but no, Cissa had graduated and had been too occupied with Lucius to spare anymore attention for Regulus who had been growing up and should've been able to stand on his own two feet, and Andy had regarded him with nothing but disappointment for him after he had joined the Death Eaters.  “Ex- Expecto- Expecto Pat- Patronum.”

 

Nothing.  Goddamn.  The Dementors continued advancing.

 

Well, time for Plan B.

 

“Come on,” Regulus wheeled around, still holding onto Harry who had a pained frown on his face and his own wand raised.  “What did I say about using magic?  We’re running!”

 

                They flew down the darkened street, neither of them looking back as the Dementors’ rattling breaths dogged their footsteps.

 

                “We can’t run forever!”  Harry panted out as they rounded a corner, desperation etched on his face.  “...Reg, I can hear my mum screaming, and- and Voldemort’s voice back in the cemetery- I should conjure a Patronus; it’d be best-”

 

                “No!”  Regulus snarled, knowing how disastrous that could be.  He cursed his own uselessness.  _He_ was the adult here, not Harry!  _He_ should be the one to think of something!  _He_ was the one with the genius mind so-

 

                Lunging forward, he released Harry’s wrist and shoved the boy behind him, skidding both of them to a stop even as he twisted around and slashed his wand down and then to the side, firing off two spells consecutively.  “Incendio!  Carcerem Circum Aliquid Horribilem Convelo!”

 

                The Dementors hit the barrier and plastered themselves against the shimmering purple prison that Regulus had erected even as a horrible screeching noise filled the air as the hooded figures writhed in the fiery hell that Regulus had created.  But there was nowhere to run, no matter how many times the Dementors bashed themselves against the magical walls.

 

                “Are they screaming?”  Harry sounded shaken, though Regulus would take it as a good sign that there was no sympathy in the boy’s expression.  Not for these creatures.

 

                “Yes,” Regulus’ throat felt as dry as the desert, and his wand hand was shaking from exertion.  But already, the evening was returning to normal now that the Dementors had been contained.  “Fire can hurt them; it’s just that they can usually escape.  Unlike this time.  Wait, I should...”

 

                He pointed his wand.  “Abscondo.  Silencio.”

 

                The entire prison, Dementors and fire and all, disappeared, and the noise abruptly cut out.  “There, they’ll burn to death, and the prison will disappear once it’s empty.  For now...”

 

                Regulus raised his wand once more and began muttering under his breath, concentrating on forging the proper runes with his magic, carving them into the air and grounding them around the prison.

 

                “What did that do?”  Harry enquired when Regulus finally lowered his wand and exhaled a long breath three minutes later.

 

                “This area’s saturated with magic,” Regulus explained wearily, wiping his brow and wanting nothing more than to lie down and rest.  “The wards I just put up will hide that until it dissipates.  It wouldn't do for anyone to try to pin something on you even though you didn't use your wand.  And I added another ward so people will avoid this area for the next twelve hours.  That should be enough time for all this to disappear without a trace.  Just to be on the safe side though, I want you to stay in your relatives’ house for at least the next twenty-four hours, clear?”

 

                Harry nodded, brow creasing with worry when Regulus stumbled a little as he took a step forward.  “Reg, are you alright?”

 

                “Fine, that just took a lot out of me, and I wasn't at my full strength either,” Regulus assured tiredly.  “Come on, let’s get you back home.  That’s enough excitement for one day.”

 

                Regulus wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist and Apparated both of them to the corner of Privet Drive without so much as a whisper of sound.

 

“Should’ve done that sooner,” He commented self-deprecatingly.

 

                “You were really badly affected by those Dementors,” Harry objected, keeping a supporting hand under Regulus’ elbow as they headed down the street.  “If anything, _I_ should’ve thought of Apparating.  I just stood there while you protected me.”

                Regulus side-eyed him.  Wonderful.  He had suspected that the kid might have a bit of a hero complex.

 

                “I’m the one who told you not to use magic, or I'm sure your Patronus would've driven them off,” Regulus admonished, voice exhausted but adamant.  “Besides, it’s not your job to protect people; it’s your job to be a teenager, to be a kid.  It’s the job of the adults around you to protect you but also to teach you how to fend for yourself one day.  Right now though, well, if you continue rushing headlong into every dangerous situation like a thoughtless Gryffindor, you won’t even live to see your majority.  Didn't you tell me that the Sorting Hat said you could've been great in Slytherin?  Use some of that Slytherin side of you to keep yourself alive.  Don’t be so hasty to stand and fight all the time.  You’ll die young if that’s the only method you know how to use when you're flirting with danger.”

 

                Harry looked a bit wide-eyed behind his glasses, and for good reason too.  Regulus didn't normally talk so much at any one time.

 

                “...Adults don’t usually help me,” Harry confessed quietly.  “I mean, you said the _Ministry_ sent Dementors after me.  That’s just insane.  So me and my friends, we usually have to help ourselves.”

 

                Regulus sighed inaudibly, giving in to the odd urge to tousle Harry’s hair.  He remembered his own childhood.  “Yeah, I know the feeling, kid.  Still, I hope I’ve proven to be at least a little dependable, hm?”

 

                Harry smiled at him then, earnest and a touch shy, respect glowing in his eyes, and Regulus couldn't help the bolt of fierce pride that surged in his chest at having that expression aimed at him.  _No one_ had ever looked at him like that before, like Regulus Black was someone worth admiring, someone worth _something_ , like he wasn't just a coward repressed by his mother or scum grovelling at the feet of the Dark Lord.

 

                “Definitely,” Harry was agreeing.  Thanks, Reg.”

 

                Regulus inclined his head, hiding a smile as they reached Number 4.  “Get inside, and remember, the farthest you go tomorrow is the yard.  I’ll see you the day after if nothing else happens.”

 

                “Alright,” Harry promised, eyeing Reg critically.  “You’ll be okay?”

 

                Reg was hard-pressed not to roll his eyes.  “I’ll be fine; I’m going straight home to sleep after this so the sooner you get inside, the sooner I can get some rest.  Go on.  Time for all little children to go to bed and all that.”

 

                Harry did roll his eyes at that but he acquiesced and headed up the front path, waving goodbye before slipping indoors.

 

                Regulus swept back up the street, ducking into the shadows of the side of a house and waiting until he heard the telltale crack of Apparition, signalling Fletcher’s return.  The man had no doubt returned to the park, realized that Harry wasn't there anymore, and jumped straight back to Number 4 Privet Drive in the hopes that Harry had just gone back to his relatives’ house instead of something worse.

 

                Regulus sneered.  He could almost feel Fletcher’s relief from three houses down when Harry’s window curtain peeled back and the teen peered outside, evidently looking for the source of the noise.

 

                Regulus was tempted to curse Fletcher but held back if only because...

 

                Well.

 

                He Apparated away then, silent as a summer breeze, appearing again near Grimmauld Place and slipping inside through a back passageway without anyone noticing.  He limped his way back to his rooms, staggered through the door of what could now be deemed ‘his bedroom’ after spending sixteen years in it, and then finally surrendered to the crushing fatigue that had weighed on him ever since he had dealt with the Dementors.

 

                He dropped like a stone, collapsing on the ground as darkness swam into his vision, and a moment later, he heard a crack and Kreacher’s fretful shriek of, “Master Regulus!”

 

                “’m fine,” Regulus slurred as Kreacher floated him onto his bed.  “Over’xerted m’self, tha’s’all.  Jus’ need some res’.”

 

                He felt Kreacher vanish his coat and shoes, and then tuck him into bed, and with a last “than’s Kreacher”, Regulus was out.

 

**VII.**

 

                Harry paced the ground in front of the park bench restlessly, having already looked through all the runes he had memorized yesterday another four times before finally throwing the towel in.

 

                Where was Reg?  Had something happened?  The man hadn't looked well after that Dementor attack; Harry knew he should’ve stuck around with Reg, even if it was just sitting on the curb until some of the colour had returned to the man’s face.  He hadn’t said anything that day but the older wizard’s glamours had faltered a little at the end, and Harry had managed to catch a glimpse of a thin, borderline gaunt, but inexplicably familiar face, along with a suggestion of black seeping into Reg’s brown hair.

 

                Harry had been eager to meet up with the man again today, but so far, Reg hadn't arrived yet.  Of course, the man could just be busy, but the older wizard had never missed a day since they had started this arrangement five weeks ago.

 

                More than that, a very important letter had arrived for Harry yesterday from Dumbledore, one that told – not asked of course; since when had his opinion ever mattered when people interfered in his life – him that ‘some people’ would be coming to escort him to a safer location on the sixth of August where his friends would be waiting for him.

 

                It was lucky that Harry already knew all about the Order and the fact that everyone was holed up in Grimmauld Place or he probably would've blown a gasket when he got there about being kept in the dark for half the summer only to be toted off on someone else’s say-so at the drop of a hat.

 

                Of course, he didn't know where exactly Grimmauld Place was due to Reg not being the Secret Keeper (and he also had no idea why Reg wanted to keep his existence a secret but at the same time was also included in the secret of where Order Headquarters was despite the supposed fact that only Order members and a few others should know; how could someone be included in a secret yet still stay ‘dead’ to almost everyone in the world?).

 

                Still, that wasn't the issue at hand at the moment.  Harry very much wished he could write back and tell them ‘thanks but no thanks’ but he doubted that he’d have much say in the matter.  So at the very least, he wanted to notify Reg about it and ask whether or not Harry could at least write to him from now on.

 

                Because Harry didn't want to give up their summer afternoons.  He was learning loads, and the only thing that could make it better would be if Harry could use his wand when Reg was teaching him.  He also liked the company, and the banter, and honestly, why couldn’t Dumbledore find someone like Reg to teach DADA instead of dark lords and frauds and Death Eaters every year?

 

                Harry huffed in irritation, scowling at the ground and making sure not to let his gaze fall onto his Order guard for too long.  Judging by the racket that had come from someone tripping over a hedge earlier on his way to the park, Harry guessed that it was Nymphadora Tonks tailing him again today.  Ah well, better her than her mentor, who – as Reg had told him – would've probably noticed something off by now, so it was a good thing that Moody always took the graveyard shift when he was on rotation.

 

                “I see you're as patient as ever,” Someone remarked, and Harry whirled around, irritation evaporating like mist at high noon.

 

                “Reg!  Finally!”  Harry breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing that Reg didn't look as bad as he had two days ago, still a bit on the tired side but definitely better.

 

                Or at least he was hiding it better but Harry hoped that wasn't the case.

 

                He wanted to ask about Reg’s health or whip out the letter right away but he wasn't _that_ stupid so he produced his own newspaper with a bit of an elegant flourish (on hindsight, he might be picking up a few of Reg’s habits) and held it out in front of him.

 

                “Crossword?”  Harry proposed, and he was certain he heard a groan coming from Tonks’ direction.  If Reg’s crooked smile was anything to go by, he had heard it too.

 

                “Of course,” Reg accepted graciously, and they took a seat at the bench.

 

                Harry knew that Reg wouldn't be able to set up the wards today without Tonks noticing something since the older wizard typically arrived at the park first so Harry started by writing, _‘How are you?  You still look tired.’_ while voicing out loud, “One down is ‘vilify’ I think.  Three across: the state or period of being a beginner in anything.  Nine letters.”

 

                _‘I’m fine,’_ Reg scribbled in the margins.  _‘I just need rest.  What about you?  You seem agitated today.  Did something happen?’_

 

                “‘Novitiate’,” Reg announced out loud as he wrote down the word.  “Five down: proudly.  Six letters, third letter is an ‘e’.”

 

                Harry scratched his head and then bent down, pretending to list out words even as he wrote back, _‘I got a letter from Dumbledore.  He said some people will be coming to take me to a safer location two days from now on the sixth.’_

 

                “I have no idea,” Harry admitted, frowning at the six-lettered space.

 

                “‘Skeigh’,” Reg answered, and not for the first time, Harry wondered if the man had read dictionaries for fun when he’d been a kid.  “Four across: a water spirit, usually having the form of a horse.  Six letters, first one’s a ‘k’.”

 

                _‘Ah, I did hear something about that,’_ Reg added on paper.  _‘You sound disappointed though.  I thought you’d be happy to see your friends at least?  And your godfather?’_

 

                “‘Kelpie’!”  Harry said gleefully, feeling a little less dumb.  Huh, Muggles did know some real creature lore after all.  _‘I do, of course I do; the last time I saw Sirius was through a fireplace, and before that, Hermione and I were saving him from getting his soul sucked out.  I miss Ron and Hermione too.  But I like spending time with you as well.’_

 

                Harry paused and reddened when he reviewed the last sentence.  _‘Learning from you I mean, and the conversation’s nice,’_ He tacked on, and Reg snorted.  In retaliation, Harry picked a clue he didn't know.  “Eight down: to elevate in degree, excellence, or respect; dignify; exalt.  Seven letters.”

 

                Reg glanced at him with more than a little humour.  _‘I’m a pureblood, Harry.  You should know better.’_

 

                “‘Ennoble’,” Reg replied without missing a beat, and Harry grumbled wordlessly under his breath as the man wrote it down.  _‘I find our afternoons enjoyable as well, and you are easy to teach, especially since I have no teaching experience.’_

 

                “Nine across: that cannot be doubted; patently evident or certain; unquestionable,” Reg recited aloud.  “Eleven letters.”

                Harry started mentally counting fingers even as he wrote, _‘Can I owl you then?  Keep in touch?  I don’t want to not be able to see you until next summer, and all my friends will think I’ve gone mental if I ask to go home over the winter hols.’_

 

                “‘Indubitable’,” Harry proclaimed triumphantly, and Reg chuckled at his enthusiasm.  “Nine down: voraciousness; appetite.  Seven letters, second letter is a ‘d’.”

 

                _‘There is no need for owls, and I would not want you to send any in case they are intercepted.’_

 

Reg’s paranoia was something Harry sometimes forgot, though he supposed the man did have a point.  They were in a war now after all, whether or not Great Britain wanted it to be true.  His eyes widened at the next words.

 

 _‘I have a gift for you,’_ Reg continued.  _‘Consider it a belated birthday present since I only brought you extra food on your actual birthday.’_

 

“‘Edacity’,” Reg answered promptly.  “Twelve across: to explore caves, especially as... a... hobby...” Harry almost laughed at the consternation on the older wizard’s face, clearly wondering why anyone would want to explore caves as a hobby.  “Seven letters.”

 

 _‘You didn't have to,’_ Harry hurriedly scrawled, but he had difficulty suppressing a delighted smile.  “It’s ‘spelunk’.”

 

Reg blinked owlishly at him.  “That’s a word?”

 

“Your encyclopedic brain has finally dried up?”  Harry teased in return, snickering when Reg cuffed him gently over the head.  “Twelve down: sharp or caustic in style, tone, etc.  Ten letters, last letter’s an ‘s’.”

 

 _‘I want to,’_ Reg replied.  _‘Besides, it is a useful gift, you’ll see.  I'm afraid I’ll have to slip you the package, and you’ll have to open it later in your room though.  Nymphadora might get suspicious otherwise.  Old men like me honestly shouldn't spend so much time with children.’_

 

“‘Mordacious’,” Reg answered while Harry stared in bafflement at the last sentence before rolling his eyes hard enough to nearly strain himself.  “Seven down: out of the depths (of sorrow, despair, etc.).  Two words, two letters and then nine letters.”

 

Harry elbowed him aside.  _‘That’s just stupid.  I know you're not like that.  Anyone with eyes would know.  Besides, you're not that old, and I'm already fifteen.’_

 

 _‘The height of maturity,’_ Harry could almost hear Reg’s sarcastic drawl.

 

Harry knocked his shoulder against the man’s arm, smothering a reluctant grin.  “I don’t know that one.”

 

“‘De profundis’,” Reg told him.  “It’s a Latin translation, from the opening of Psalm 130.  The beginning goes something like ‘de profundis clamavi ad te, Domine’, which translates to ‘out of the depths, I have cried out to you, O Lord’, although these days, it’s used as a phrase to convey sorrow.”

 

                Harry stared.  Reg shrugged.  “It was a phase I had back when I was about fourteen.  And you’d be surprised – some religions are quite closely related to certain studies.”

 

                Oh.  So religion was related to magic.  No surprise there, considering the witch hunts.

 

                “So, next,” Reg carried on, tapping his pencil against the paper.  “Eight across: shade; shadow.  Five letters, first letter’s a ‘u’.”

 

                _‘There is something else,’_ Reg added silently.  _‘It is very likely that once you reach Grimmauld Place, you will find out who I am.’_   Harry almost gaped. _‘The person who will tell you about me will not have very nice things to say, and I do not blame him for it.  He has no idea I survived, and no idea that I had left the Dark Lord’s service even before I had ‘died’._

_‘If you still wish to maintain contact afterwards,’_ Reg continued.  _‘Then of course, I will be pleased.  However, should you not wish to, then I can only ask that you keep silent when it comes to my existence.’_

 

                Harry shot him a dirty look and jotted down grumpily, _‘You're an idiot.  I don’t care who tells me what; you're my friend and I'm not going to get spooked away or whatever you're worried about just because someone says something bad about you.  I already know you were a Death Eater, that you probably had to do some pretty horrible things, and if I can accept that, then I can accept anything.  Short of you turning out to be the love child of Dumbledore and Snape or something of course.’_

 

                Reg choked and turned green around the edges, Harry cracked up, and they both dissolved into helpless laughter, Reg significantly more dignified than him though as Harry tumbled off the bench, wheezing as his brain summoned up some very nasty illustrations.

 

                “You are a very sick-minded child,” Reg concluded, taking a deep breath before reaching down to haul Harry back onto the bench.  “Brat.  Focus on the crossword.”

 

                “‘Umber’,” Harry gasped, taking his glasses off to brush the unbidden tears from his eyes as he finally settled down again.  “The word’s ‘umber’.”

 

                “At least your higher mental faculties still seem to be working in spite of all evidence indicating otherwise,” Reg groused.

 

                Harry tipped his head back, glancing up at the blue sky with a smile before leaning in again.

 

                They spent the rest of the afternoon doing crosswords, foregoing homework for the day.

 

                And Harry wished – wistfully, futilely – that all the years of his life could've been and could be as carefree as this summer had been.

 

**VIII.**

 

                It was a pocket watch, and it was beautifully crafted.  The cover was silver laced with blood red garnet (Harry had the feeling that Reg just couldn't bring himself to go with Gryffindor bright red and gold so had chosen something close instead; Harry was glad because carrying around something coloured a gaudy gold was not a nice thought) and had the initials ‘H.J.P.’ engraved into it as part of the intricate forest design.  To finish it off, miniature figures of a stag, a doe, a dog, and a wolf took up positions around his initials, all poised as if standing sentinel for him.

 

                The inside was even better.  At first glance, it told the time and direction, and it did, the black roman numerals etched into the face as the clock hands ticked away, as well as a compass at its center.  But the letter that Reg had attached explained the additional functions.

 

_Harry,_

_As you have probably already seen, I have given you a pocket watch.  I hope the design is to your liking; there is none other like it since it is handmade by a master metalsmith who finished it only a week ago.  The watch is nigh unbreakable, waterproof, fireproof, spell-proof, and almost entirely buffoon-proof (I say almost because the stupidity of the human race still manages to surprise me to this day so someone out there might just be able to come up with a way to accidentally break it)._

_The gift is perhaps somewhat old-fashioned, especially for a fifteen-year-old teenager, but it does not only tell the time and guide you home should you ever find yourself lost.  While the metalsmith forged the watch, I was the one who did the spellwork.   I am sure you will have felt a tingle when you opened it, which is a good thing because the watch has absorbed a spark of your magic and now recognizes you as its sole owner, and it will let no other person open it._

_Secondly, excluding the clock and compass, there are three other settings in this timepiece.  Simply click the crown of the watch to change it._

_If you have done so once, then you will have noticed the mirror that has taken the place of the clock and compass.  This is a two-way mirror, and this is how you can contact me at any time.  I have a matching watch in my possession, and I have already worked in the runes needed to connect the two.  This setting is based on a set of mirrors I have come across before in the possession of my family, though I no longer have any idea where they are anymore.  However, those required the person to say the recipient’s name out loud, not particularly smart if you're trying to contact someone for help while hiding from an enemy, and you are without your wand to even silence your surroundings.  For this mirror, simply look into it and think of me, and if I answer, then it should project my face into the air above the watch so that you will have no need to squint into the mirror._

_In addition, should you ever wish to communicate with someone else, I will need to carve the correct runes into whatever device they pick out, so if you ever feel the wish to include your friends, I will be happy to send you a few extra watches with the accurate runes inscribed into them, though you will forgive me if I do not make them as fancy as the one you have._

_Switch to the next setting now.  This is perhaps the setting I am most proud of.  You will have noticed that the mirror is gone, leaving a panel with four keyholes.  Worry not; they do not need keys.  Press your finger against them and they will open for you.  Again, they will only open for you and no one else._

_As it is, these four keyholes lead to four compartments, each enhanced with a permanent Invisible Extension Charm.  The first is for all intents and purposes a library that will store up to five hundred books, though only one shelf will appear above the watch at a time, and you will be able to organize your books in any way you want.  If you wish to recall a book, simply think of the title and it will appear in the shelf (do remember to either be holding on to the watch or touching the shelf when you do so).  For this particular compartment, I have already added a collection of my own books that you may keep.  I guarantee you will find them useful._

_Moving on, behind the second keyhole is a potions cabinet _large enough to store up to one hundred standard vials_ , and already filled with a variety of potions you may need to one day save your life (or – knowing you – someone else’s life).  For now, there are twenty potions stored inside, everything from Polyjuice to Blood-Replenishing Potions to Essence of Dittany.  I understand that some of these potions are beyond you at the moment but do keep in mind that you should keep your stores stocked as much as possible at all times._

_The third keyhole contains a wardrobe.  I hope I do not overstep my bounds by saying this but your current clothes do not befit your station.  I have given you an overview about the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, and it just won’t do if you have nothing to wear but those Muggle hand-me-downs and your school robes.  Thus, I have taken the liberty of adding to your wardrobe several sets of clothing, both Muggle (since you insist) and pureblood apparels.  Rest assured, they are not too flamboyant, and will not openly flaunt your wealth when you wear them.  Again, the closet will come out to float above the timepiece when you press the keyhole._

_The last keyhole is empty, but it has enough storage space to put everything short of a hippogriff into it.  It is self-organizing as well so your belongings will not end up tumbling over each other once you place them inside.  To withdraw something, again, press the keyhole, think of the item, and it will appear._

_Lastly, the remaining setting, now depicting a lion, is an emergency password-activated portkey.  Obviously, it is an unauthorized portkey, but making one is the least of my crimes.  You have heard of Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Wards, etc?  This portkey will bypass them all, essentially ripping a hole through them in the process, and will take you to the closest safe location that the portkey can pinpoint by dropping you off somewhere where no ill-intent is nearby.  It is one-use only, and even I had to spend two weeks making it, so use it wisely, and only in the direst of situations to make your escape.  To set the password, place your hand on the lion, and say the word or phrase you wish to use.  The lion should flash gold once you remove your hand, and the password will be set.  To trigger it, move the watch to this setting and the entire timepiece will become a portkey.  Once you recite the password, it will activate._

_Perhaps now you wish to know why I have personally created something like this for you when we have really only known each other for five weeks.  Truthfully, I myself do not fully comprehend the reason, though – as I have said at the beginning of our acquaintance – part of why I am choosing to protect you is because of our mutual acquaintance, a relation that you will understand once you reach Order Headquarters._

_You are entering a war, Harry, and while I am firmly of the opinion that children should not have to fight, should not even have to see bloodshed, you do not have that luxury.  You are the Boy-Who-Lived, and there are people who will want to kill you, people who will want you to save them, people who expect you to fight._

_I give this pocket watch to you in the hopes that it will help, the clock to better your time management when it comes to your schoolwork, the additions to assist you in times of tribulation, and the compass to remind you always that you should walk your own path, pursue your own ideals, and follow what you believe to be right even if the entire world stands against you._

_R.A.B._

_P.S. The Gryffindor tendencies for melodramatic speeches that you undoubtedly possess seem to be contagious as I appear to have contracted them.  Show this letter to anyone and the Dark Lord will be the least of your worries._

 

                Harry snorted with laughter at the ending that effectively ruined the mood, which was probably Reg’s goal.  The older wizard’s Slytherin side always seemed miffed to be sharing body space with a Gryffindor side because Harry didn't care what anybody said; Reg definitely had some Gryffindor in him.  Only a Gryffindor would've stood up to those Dementors just to protect Harry from both those creatures and trouble with the Ministry.

 

                He carefully folded up the letter and slipped it into the cover of a Defence text before putting it back into the priceless watch.  He still couldn't believe Reg had actually gone to the effort of creating something so complex.  Harry would be damned if he allowed anything to happen to it.  He’d keep it with him at all times, and Reg was right; with the war going on, one never knew when he might need a quick escape.

 

                He flopped back onto his bed, fingers running down the delicate-looking but definitely resilient silver chain attached to the watch.

 

                Definitely more useful than the candy Ron had sent or the books on improving one’s study habits from Hermione, though he was grateful that they had remembered his birthday and had been able to send something at all what with all of them being shut up in Grimmauld Place.

 

                Sitting up again, Harry flicked to the library setting and grabbed the first book on runes.  Might as well continue his studies; when he called Reg on the mirror the next time, he wanted to at least have a list of questions on things he hadn't understood ready to discuss with the wizard.

 

                And his thanks for the watch of course.  There were no words for the amount of time and energy that Reg must've put into it but Harry would attempt it anyway.

 

**Please leave a review on your way out.**

 

****Carcerem Circum Aliquid Horribilem Convelo**  – I wrap a prison around something horrible  
**

**Abscondo – hide, conceal, cover, shroud**


	2. Chapter 2

**IX.**

 

                “HARRY!  Ron, he's here, Harry's here!  We didn't hear you arrive!  Oh, how are you?  Are you all right?  Have you been furious with us?  I bet you have, I know our letters were useless, but we couldn't tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn't, oh, we've got so much to tell you-”

 

                “Let him breathe, Hermione,” Came Ron’s voice, and Harry was relieved when Hermione’s rapid-fire babbling stopped, and she let go of him at last.  He surreptitiously rolled his shoulders and offered a genuine smile back as Ron – who seemed to have grown several more inches during their month apart, making him taller and more gangly looking than ever, though the long nose, bright red hair and freckles were the same – joined them, closing the door behind Harry.

 

                “Like I said, we’ve got so much to tell you!”  Hermione continued breathlessly, exchanging glances with Ron.  “And I’m sorry we haven’t been very informative about anything but Dumbledore said that it would be best if we didn't.”

 

                “I think he thought you were safest with the Muggles,” Ron followed up just a touch nervously.

 

                _Yeah,_ Harry thought rather sarcastically, and in his mind, he could almost hear Reg echoing his words in that sardonic deadpan drawl that the older wizard seemed to have raised to an art form.  _Real safe, if you don’t count the Dementors who decided to take a vacation in Little Whinging._

 

                Harry felt an inexplicable urge to snicker.  Probably not the best thing to do in front of Ron and Hermione.

 

                “It’s fine,” He said out loud instead, strolling forward with his trunk towards the empty bed.  “This one’s mine, right?  Are you sharing with Ginny then, Hermione?”

 

                “Er, yes,” Hermione sounded taken aback.  “Um, so about the lack of information...?”

 

                “Dumbledore’s had people from the Order of the Phoenix tailing you all the time,” Ron jumped in as if that would appease Harry (which would've done exactly the opposite if Harry hadn't already known about all this).  “To keep you safe, you know.”

                “Yeah, I know,” Harry confirmed, and this time, he could imagine Reg berating him for giving even that away.  The older wizard had always been the keep-cards-close-to-your-chest type of person but Harry couldn't see the harm in letting his friends know that he – or rather Reg but he wasn't going to say anything about that – had been perceptive enough to pick out the various Order members that had been following him.  And if it spread to everyone else, that was probably best, if only because they seriously needed to fix that problem of concealing where they were hiding when they weren’t standing on flat ground, or they were going to get themselves killed one of these days.

 

                “You know?”  Hermione looked skeptical now, and Harry felt a twinge of annoyance.

 

                “Yes, I know,” Harry sighed.  “They're not exactly subtle, are they?  I figured they were there to guard me since they didn't try to kill me.”

 

                He waved a hand dismissively before reaching over to unlock Hedwig’s cage.  Hedwig swooped out, gliding once around the room before landing on top of the wardrobe in the corner.  She could fly around here however much she pleased.  “Nevermind; look, why don’t you give me a rundown on what’s been going on and what this Order of the Cooked Ostrich is?”

 

                Both his friends goggled at him, and Harry smothered a smirk.  He had picked up that particular habit of poking fun at the Order’s name from Reg.  Once, they had spent an entire hour coming up with different variations, and Reg had looked positively schoolboy gleeful through every single minute of it.

 

                “Don’t be rude, Harry,” Hermione lectured.  “It’s the ‘Order of the Phoenix’, and it’s a very important organization led by Dumbledore who founded it.  It's a secret society of people who fought against You-Know-Who last time.”

 

                “This is its headquarters,” Ron tacked on.  “They hold the meetings here and everything.”

 

                “Not that we’re allowed into them or anything,” Hermione hastily assured.  “Mostly, we’ve just been decontaminating this house, it's been empty for ages and stuff's been breeding in here. We've managed to clean out the kitchen, most of the bedrooms and I think we're doing the drawing room tomo- AARGH!”

 

                With two loud cracks, Fred and George, Ron's elder twin brothers, had materialised out of thin air in the middle of the room, setting off Pigwidgeon who twittered more wildly than ever before zooming off to join Hedwig on top of the wardrobe.  As the two older teens turned to face him, Harry finally cracked a more genuine grin.  Ah, this was much more interesting than listening to Hermione and Ron’s not-overview of what had been happening around this place.

 

                “Fred, George,” Harry greeted.  “You two passed your Apparation tests then?”

 

                “Hello, Harry!”  They chorused, beaming at him.

 

                “With distinction,” Fred confirmed.  For some reason, he was holding what looked like a piece of very long, flesh-coloured string.

 

                “It would have taken you about thirty seconds longer to walk down the stairs,” Ron huffed.

 

                “Time is Galleons, little brother,” Fred said, winking none-too-subtly at Harry as George did the same.

 

                Harry rolled his eyes.  Could they be any more obvious?

 

                “You should try getting rid of that crack sound,” He advised instead.  “What if you wanted to sneak up on someone?  The whole world would know you were coming if you Apparate in like that.”

 

                “Harry!”  Hermione scolded indignantly.  “That’s even worse!  They’ll give us all heart failure!  Don’t encourage them!”

 

                The twins just laughed, and George slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders as he plopped down on the bed beside him.

 

                “We’ll see what we can do,” George promised appreciatively.  “Can’t have the entire world know we’re coming when we want to prank someone after all.”

 

                Fred nodded agreeably but stood back and eyed Harry somewhat thoughtfully.  “You look different, Harry.”

 

                Harry blinked, and then glanced down at himself.  He was wearing a Muggle attire, but for the first time in his _life_ , the clothes actually fit, and he had on new jeans and a crisp white shirt with a casual light grey zip-up hoodie thrown over it.

 

                “Thanks,” Harry quirked a smile.  “I got new clothes this summer.”

 

                Not a lie, not even an omission of the truth, really.  One of Reg’s life lessons was: _the best lie is a vague truth.  Never get caught in an outright lie because you won’t be able to take it back.  Instead, stick to the truth but don’t go into too much detail.  Most humans make their own assumptions to fill in any blanks you leave.  Let them.  When it suits you anyway._

 

                But Fred was shaking his head.  “Nah, I don’t mean the clothes, though the sizes fit you much better now.  But there’s something about you this year...” The redhead scrutinized him for a moment longer.  “I don’t know; healthier definitely.  More grown up too I think.  Either way, you look good.”

 

                Harry tilted his head, and then said with a perfectly straight face, “Sorry Fred, but I don’t swing that way.”  He placed a hand against his chest and batted his eyes dramatically as a teasing smirk curled his lips.  “You flatter me though.”

 

                A stunned heartbeat later, both twins roared with laughter while Ron’s face flamed red as he gawked at Harry, and Hermione pinked with embarrassment as well.

 

Harry himself reddened just a bit, still not used to offering his own verbal quips, but Reg had told him that a good, oftentimes humorous follow-up would always gain him more allies and put people more at ease than staying silent or shying away or getting angry would, especially in Gryffindor, and this year at Hogwarts, what with potentially at least three-quarters of the school shunning him _again_ because he was a liar or insane or whatever else they wanted to believe, Harry would need all the allies he could get.  Might as well get some practice in now.

 

                “Our little Harrykins is growing up!”  Fred wiped a fake tear from his eye even as he grinned at Harry with approval.

 

                “Learning to flirt and everything,” George agreed, ruffling Harry’s hair so that it stuck up even more afterwards.  “He’ll be fending off boys and girls left and right!  I'm so proud!”

 

                “Ah, but he doesn't bat for the other team, George,” Fred reminded him before staggering back and affecting a wounded stance.  “Woe is me!  The Boy-Who-Lived turned me down!”

 

                The twins cracked up again, and Harry joined in, the room ringing with laughter until Hermione’s flustered voice cut them off abruptly.

 

                “Harry Potter, what’s gotten into you today?”  The brunette had her hands on her hips and was peering at Harry suspiciously.  Harry’s laughter died as he turned to frown at her.

 

                “You're not acting yourself,” Hermione summarized.  “Is this how you've been dealing with your guilt?  You're going about it the wrong way.  Oh I knew something was wrong when your letters stopped coming!”

 

                Harry blinked at the room at large with complete bafflement, and managed an intelligent, “Huh?”

 

                ( _“‘I beg your pardon’, not ‘huh’,” Reg reprimanded._ )

 

                “You haven’t been writing to us,” Hermione explained.  “You've been wallowing in misplaced guilt, haven’t you?  And now you're dealing with it all the wrong way!  You should’ve talked to us about this stuff, Harry!”

 

                Harry’s eyebrows were rising higher and higher with every word.  He glanced over at Ron who shrugged and stayed silent, giving Harry a look that said ‘just agree with her, mate’.  He looked to the twins who rolled their eyes at the same time.

 

“Dealing with what exactly?”  Harry asked, still confused as he turned back to Hermione once more.

 

“Cedric and the graveyard!”  Hermione clarified impatiently.  “Don’t pretend not to know, Harry!  It’s not healthy to just ignore the issue!”

 

Harry frowned again, feeling a faint ache of sorrow in his chest at the thought of Cedric but otherwise alright.  “Hermione, I thought we cleared this up weeks ago.  I worked through that already, I'm fine.  I'm sure I told you that in at least two of my letters.”

 

“Of course you're not fine,” Hermione said confidently only to be interrupted by Fred.

 

“Hermione, look at him,” The twin gestured at Harry.  “Out of all the times we’ve seen him after he came back from the Dursleys, has he ever looked as fine as he is now?”

 

“That’s because he’s repressing everything,” Hermione scowled at Fred.  “He can’t heal if he doesn't talk about it!  _You've_ been telling us to leave him alone all summer!”

 

Harry glanced at him, startled, but Fred – uncharacteristically enough – flashed a sharp quicksilver glare of his own in Hermione’s direction before his expression cleared and he shook his head.

 

“No, I told you two to stop nagging him,” Fred corrected, wiggling the fleshy bit of string he had been holding in the air as he looked at Harry.  “We’ve been listening in on Order meetings using these, Harry-”

 

“-Extendable Ears,” George interjected smoothly.  “Great for eavesdropping-”

 

“-and we’ve learned quite a bit,” Fred picked up.  “Like the fact that some of the Order are following known Death Eaters, keeping tabs on them and such-”

 

“-amongst other things,” George nodded.  “And we’ve heard you've made a friend-”

 

“-who does crossword puzzles with you-”

 

“-and teaches you French and whatnot-”

 

“-which we wouldn't mind learning ourselves when it comes to the swearwords, Harry; keep that in mind for if you're ever in a teaching mood-”

 

“-but most of all,” George finished.  “We’ve heard that your Muggle friend’s been good for you.  And clearly, he has.  Which is why Fred and I told those two not to fret or bombard you with demands to ‘talk’ since you've obviously found a way of your own to deal with your problems.”

 

Harry nodded slowly.  “I see.”

 

“Which is completely untrue!”  Hermione dove in hotly, crossing her arms.  “He’s a Muggle!  There’s nothing wrong with that of course but what would he know about what Harry went through?”

 

“And what would you know about it?”  Harry cut in at last, leveling an even stare on Hermione who faltered a bit in the face of his intent gaze.  “You weren’t there, Hermione.  Neither was Ron.”

 

Hermione flushed, and Ron frowned, but she forged on stubbornly.  “No, but we know about it, and we’re from the same world, and we’re your friends!”

 

“He’s my friend too,” Harry pointed out.

 

“He’s a grown man!”  Hermione argued crossly.

 

Harry threw his hands into the air.  “What has that got to do with anything?  I can’t be friends with adults now?”

 

“That’s not it,” Hermione looked utterly frustrated.  “But how do you know he’s not just using you or something?”

Harry stilled under George’s arm, and the twin in question glanced at him, raised his eyebrows briefly, and then carefully withdrew, scooting away from Harry by about half a foot with an expression of amusement on his face.  Harry barely noticed.

 

“I beg your pardon?”  He said stiffly, something hot and fierce surging up in his gut, simmering protectively as it laid in wait for its prey.  “I'm not quite sure what you're trying to imply.”

 

“I mean,” Hermione’s voice bordered on disdainful reproach.  “He could just be trying to get close to you to... _you know_.  There are stories in the papers about that kind of thing happening all the time, Harry.  You can’t be so naive about it.”

 

Harry swallowed, trying to steady his Occlumency shields as his temper threatened to get the better of him.  “Hermione, I think you should stop while you're ahead.  I know Reg; he’d never do something like that.  So I'm telling you now; don’t continue insulting him like you know everything, especially not to my face.”

Hermione glared, pulling herself up to her full height.  “You're going to have to see sense sometime, Harry.  You're just not seeing it because you're so focused on pretending you don’t feel guilty about Cedric.  It’s good that you're back with us now; there’s no telling what that man would've done to you given even just a few more weeks.  You should take this experience as a lesson to be more wary of child molesters-”

 

Hermione half-yelped, half-screamed when the entire room erupted with activity, and Ron leapt to his feet with a shocked shout.

 

The windows shattered.  The lamp on the bedside table exploded.  And every leg of the desk across the room snapped, the entire thing collapsing in on itself without its support.  Both Hedwig and Pigwidgeon hooted agitatedly from their perch though they were smart enough to stay atop the wardrobe.

 

A long silence followed.  Fred brushed an invisible speck of dust off his robes.  George lounged back even further against the foot of the bed.

 

Harry stood up, and Hermione actually took a step back, eyes wide.

 

“You've never even met him,” Harry said quietly, reigning in his anger even as he let it hone his voice into icy steel.  “Don’t talk about him like that.  What’s wrong with you, Hermione?”

 

“What’s wrong with me?!  What’s wrong with _you_?!”  Hermione retorted somewhat shrilly.  “No letters-”

 

“ _Less_ letters,” Harry corrected.  “I still wrote.”

 

“-and you stopped talking to us and you don’t tell us anything-” Hermione charged on heedlessly.

 

“It’s not like you tell me anything either,” Harry countered.  “Why should I tell you every little detail of my life?  It’s _my life_ , Hermione.  I don’t need people looking over my shoulder to monitor every one of my actions and tell me whether or not I can do them.”

 

“-and it’s not _good_ for you, Harry,” Hermione insisted obstinately, completely disregarding everything he had just said.

 

“I’ll decide what’s good for me, thank you,” Harry returned firmly.  “And right now, I’ve decided that the best thing for all of us is for me to leave this room before either of us says or does something we’ll regret.”

 

And without another word, Harry shouldered his way past Hermione and Ron, bypassing Fred as well, and ducked out of the bedroom.

 

Or tried to anyway.  When he opened the door, he almost ran headlong into Ron’s sister, who had undoubtedly been eavesdropping.

 

Ginny took on a sheepish look.  “Hi, Harry.  I heard you had arrived.”

 

“Hey, Ginny,” Harry greeted, absently thinking that it was a good step up that she wasn't turning red or stuttering in his presence anymore.  “Do you know if the meeting’s out yet?”

 

Ginny shook her head.  “Not quite.  Looking forward to seeing Sirius?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, and then paused.  “You've all been living with him for the past few weeks?”

 

“Yes,” Ginny eyed him speculatively for a second.  “We know he’s innocent and everything of course.  He can be a bit temperamental but he’s still pretty fun to be around.”

 

“Oh,” Harry ignored the hollow pang in his chest.

 

( _“I'll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle.  But... well... think about it.  Once my name's cleared... if you wanted a... a different home...”_ )

 

It didn't matter, Harry told himself sternly.  Ron and Hermione and all the others hadn’t really been _living_ _with_ Sirius; they’d just all been living in the same house together.

 

Which was different.

 

Once Sirius’ name was cleared, then Harry could move in with his godfather to live with him.  Sirius had promised after all.  There was no reason for him to feel even the slightest bit betrayed that Sirius had been living it up here with his friends and not Harry.

 

                He shook the bitter thoughts out of his head.  That was stupid; he was here now.  Besides, if he had come to Grimmauld earlier, he might not have met Reg, and Harry really wouldn't want to give that up for anything.

 

                “Right, well,” Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair.  “I should-”

 

                “-watch us do magic,” Fred suggested, lazily flicking his wand at the windows with a muttered “Reparo.”

 

                “You can sit by the door if you want,” George said cheerfully as if Harry hadn't just blown up half the room.  The older teen also had his wand raised, swishing it at the lamp as Fred started on the desk.  “We’ve got a little more news than just what the Order’s been up to.”

 

                Harry sighed but after glancing at Hermione who looked willing enough to hold her tongue for now, and at Ron, who still seemed somewhat uncomfortable with all the tension in the room, and then at Ginny who was looking expectantly at him, he nodded once and slid down onto the ground to lean against the wall.  Ginny promptly secured a chair for herself, and they all settled down for the time being.

 

                “So let’s see, what’s new?”  George mused, and then his expression turned ugly.  “Oh yeah, wanna hear about Percy?”

 

**X.**

 

                Sirius was happy, and seeing as he wasn't happy very much nowadays, he definitely wanted to stay happy for as long as possible.

 

                Which shouldn't be hard because!  Because his godson was here, right at this very moment, somewhere in the house.  Of course, Sirius had wanted to go pick Harry up along with Moony and the others but he was an escaped convict (who had never actually had a trial and thus had never been officially convicted) so Dumbledore had said that he had to stay put.

 

                Still, Harry was here in Grimmauld Place right this instant, and Sirius was...

 

                ...not so happy because he was stuck in yet another meeting.

 

                He had tuned everyone out ages ago, mostly because they were simply going over the same precautions that they had been for the past several _weeks_ , and of course, _Snape’s_ report (that bastard never could shut up about how he was doing _so_ much more work than Sirius), as well as the same questions of ‘have you captured any Death Eaters yet’ (of _course_ not), and ‘who’s turn is it for guard duty’ ( _never_ Sirius), and ‘what’s the latest news on the Ministry’ (they’re _still_ a bunch of bumbling fools without even a snowball’s chance in hell of  fighting off Voldemort once the snake bastard finally decides to surface), and ‘Potter’s spending an awful lot of time with some Muggle doing crossword puzzles in the park’ (which just... what the bloody _hell?_ ).

 

                It was that last one that Sirius ever took any major interest in, mostly because he couldn't understand why Harry wanted to spend time with some Muggle every day doing _crossword puzzles_ instead of – for example – writing more letters to his friends.

 

                And to Sirius of course.

 

                Granted, neither he nor Harry’s friends had been all that forthcoming with information (at all), as per Dumbledore’s orders, and Harry had every right to be livid with them, but did that really mean that the kid had to go and make friends with some random Muggle and forget about them?  Ever since Tonks had first come back telling them about a brown-haired thirty-something-year-old bloke defending Harry from a bunch of bullies, Sirius had been thankful at first that there was still some decent folk out there, but then...

 

                But then the Order guards had started returning with news of a fast-forming friendship between Sirius’ godson and that Muggle, and letters from Harry had slowly begun petering out.  Before that first week of July, letters from Harry had come every two days, as fast as Hedwig had been able to deliver them, and while Sirius had felt somewhat guilty for not being able to write anything more than ‘keep your head down’, and ‘how are you feeling today’, and other things that had nothing to do with any of the questions that Harry had wanted answers to, he had still looked forward to at least receiving letters from his godson.

 

                And then Harry had met that Muggle man (and for some reason, all the guards had missed the bloke’s name for five weeks straight until two days ago when Tonks had swept back in and told them that Harry had called him ‘Reg’), and the letters dwindled from one every two days to one per week, and then they’d stopped almost completely at the beginning of the fourth week of July until Harry had sent a short thank-you note on his birthday to Sirius, Ron, Hermione, and the twins for the presents they had sent.

 

                That was it.  Even the content in each letter had been condensed to a few sentences at most, and they were usually about inane things like ‘this summer’s getting hotter’ and ‘I’ve finished my homework’ and ‘hope you're doing well’ because Harry had stopped asking questions about _anything_ entirely.

 

                And still the accounts had come in from the Order members, each ‘Potter guard’ who had taken the afternoon shift for the day returning with a bemused smile and a story about Harry’s latest crossword puzzle.  Hestia had taken to copying down all the clues just so she could solve them later in her free time.

 

                Of course, it wasn't _just_ crosswords.  Apparently, the Muggle was fluent in French (Sirius was too!  _He_ could teach Harry!) and had been teaching Harry a variety of words and phrases, as well as a slew of swearwords because one could insult someone in that language and still make it sound as smooth as a compliment if the person they were cursing out didn't know French.

 

                However, all this just accumulated into the simple fact that Sirius was sort of – kind of, _very_ – jealous.

 

                Of a Muggle.

 

                Not that he had anything against Muggles, and this Reg fellow was apparently good at making Harry laugh, and if the Order guards were to be believed, Harry no longer looked as guilty or sad or like death had warmed over after one of his nightmares.  In fact, the nightmares seemed to have lessened or stopped altogether since Mad-Eye and Kingsley – who usually took the night shifts – had said that they could no longer hear Harry crying out in his sleep.

 

                Which were all very good things.  Reg was clearly a good influence on Harry.

 

                That didn't stop Sirius from feeling jealous.  If anything, it just made it worse, which had the simultaneous effect of making himself feel a bit like scum for wanting to deny Harry that influence.

 

                It wasn't as if he didn't want Harry to feel better; he _did_!  Sirius just wanted to be the one in that Muggle’s place.  He had already failed James and Lily once when it came to their lives and their son.  He just wanted to do _something_ to try and make up for that.

 

                Instead, he was stuck in his hated childhood home and _cleaning_.  Because that wretched Kreacher couldn't be bothered to, and Sirius would rather have that elf out of sight than _in_ sight and offending everyone just by opening his mouth.

 

                But!  Harry was here, finally, and Sirius could start spending some time with his godson at last.

 

                Which would happen a lot sooner if this meeting would pick up its pace.  Molly had gone out and come back with the others but hadn't said anything since Snape had started on his spiel about something or other.

 

                “I believe we can wrap things up for today,” Dumbledore announced at last, and Sirius blew out a gusty breath as everyone began packing up.  Finally!

 

                “Will you be wanting to see Harry first, Albus?”  Molly enquired as she rolled up her sleeves, no doubt ready to go put the last finishing touches on dinner.

 

                “No, I think it would be best for me to be on my way,” Dumbledore looked over at Sirius, blue eyes twinkling.  “I'm sure Harry would like to have some time with Sirius.”

 

                Sirius stared back stoically, not reacting.

 

                “Be sure not to tell Harry more than he needs to know,” Dumbledore cautioned them all before departing.  “We don’t want to burden the boy more than absolutely necessary.”

 

                Sirius was on his feet before Dumbledore had reached the front door, already rushing for the stairs.

 

                “Finally able to do something useful, Black?”  Snape sneered as Sirius brushed past him.  “Then again, pampering that spoiled useless brat is the only thing you know how to do.”

 

                Sirius paused at the foot of the staircase, and for once, the thought of his godson delayed his typical anger towards the greasy git.  He snorted instead and headed up, tossing back, “Out of everything you've ever said, Snivellus, your opinion on my godson is by far the most insignificant, and considering the fact that I have _never_ cared about anything you have ever had to say in my entire life, that’s really something.  Can’t say I'm too surprised though.  _Everyone_ knows you hate _Lily’s son_ , after all.”

 

                Sirius didn't need to look back to know that the overgrown bat had flinched.

 

                He smiled, vindictively pleased.  Point to him.

 

                “Sirius!”

 

                Snape was instantly forgotten as Sirius’ attention was drawn to the top of the stairs where his godson was standing, so much like James yet that was Lily’s smile, and it brought a grin to Sirius’ own face as he bounded up the rest of the steps.

 

                “Harry!”  He felt awkward for just a moment as he swept the boy – _fifteen years old, all grown up; Sirius had missed so much_ – up in a crushing hug, but Harry returned it after only a startled second’s hesitation, and the awkwardness faded as Sirius pulled back to study the kid.  “How’s my favourite godson?”

 

                Harry rolled his eyes, and Sirius was delighted to see the healthy flush in the boy’s cheeks, teenage frame a little more filled out and a bit taller, and wearing clothes that actually fit.  From what he had been able to glimpse back in third year, Harry usually wore oversized hand-me-downs under his school robes.

 

                “I'm your only godson, Sirius,” Harry told him in an exasperated tone, but when Sirius met his eyes – _Lily’s eyes_ – Harry jerked back, surprise flitting across his face.

 

                “Harry?”  Sirius prodded, somewhat puzzled by the reaction.  “Something wrong?”

 

                “...You have grey eyes,” Harry said in a dazed tone.

 

                Sirius frowned, befuddled.  “Yeess, I do.  Are my grey eyes somehow noteworthy?”

 

                “No, no,” Harry assured, though he still looked distracted.  “I just- never noticed before.  Nevermind.  How have you been?  Was this really your house when you were a kid?  What is _with_ the house-elf heads mounted on the walls?”

 

                Sirius couldn't help it.  He barked out a laugh at his godson’s incredulous tone and wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders.  He had thought Harry would be a bit more reticent like he recalled him to be in the kid’s third and fourth years but Harry’s sense of humour and overall contentment were shining through, and it was contagious despite the fact that they were on the topic of his parents’ house.

 

                “We have dinner now,” Sirius told Harry, not paying much attention to the other kids trailing behind them as they headed back down the stairs.  “And it’s pretty late.  But tomorrow, I’ll give you a tour if you want, not that there’s much to see, and we can have some good old godfather-godson bonding time, alright?”

 

                Harry blinked up at him, and then his shoulders loosened up just a touch from the slightly tense line that they had been held at.  Sirius hadn't even noticed the kid’s nervousness until Harry had relaxed.

 

                “Yeah, sure,” Harry smiled, and Sirius figured that his summer was finally looking up.

 

                Two hours, one screaming portrait of his damned mother, and one dinner later, Sirius changed his mind.

 

                “He has a right to know what’s been going on!”  Sirius bellowed.

 

                “He is far too young!”  Molly screeched back.

 

                “Hang on!”  George interrupted loudly.

 

“How come Harry gets his questions answered?”  Fred demanded angrily.

 

“We’ve been trying to get stuff out of you for a month-”

 

“It's not my fault you haven't been told what the Order's doing,” Sirius growled tersely.  “That's your parents’ decision.  Harry on the other hand-”

 

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry!”  Molly bulldozed over him, face nearly as red as her hair.  “Dumbledore said not to tell Harry more than he _needs to know_!”

 

“I don’t intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly,” Sirius bit out.  From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his godson looking highly unimpressed with everything going on around him, and a second later, the kid actually pulled out a book and proceeded to read it, ignoring the argument happening over his head entirely.  Just... _what_?  “But as he was the one who saw Voldemort come back, he has more right than most-”

 

“He’s not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!”  Molly snapped.  “He’s only fifteen and-”

 

“And he's dealt with as much as most in the Order,” Sirius insisted.  “And more than some.”

 

“No one’s denying what he’s done!”  Molly shrilled, her voice rising even more as her fists trembled on the arms of her chair.  “But he’s still-”

 

“He’s not a child!”  Sirius barked impatiently, pushing back the regret that came with this statement.  Harry _wasn't_ a mere child, no matter how much Sirius wished otherwise.

 

“He's not an adult either!”  Molly snarled back, the red in her face turning almost blotchy.  “He’s not James, Sirius!”

 

In his peripheral vision, Sirius saw Harry stiffen, head still bent over his book but body becoming unnaturally motionless, and Sirius’ next words pitched low and cold with instantaneous fury.  How dare this woman-

 

“I’m perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly,” Sirius said icily.  Around him, at the fringes of his senses, he could feel the magic in the Black home respond, rustling maliciously as it pawed hungrily in the wings, waiting eagerly for Sirius to forcibly expel the offending party from the house.

 

Sirius took a deep breath.

 

Molly didn't seem to notice his increasing ire, or at least she chose not to notice.  “I’m not sure you are!  Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it’s as though you think you've got your best friend back!  Harry is not his father, however much he might look like him!  He is still at school, and adults responsible for him should not forget it!”

 

“Meaning I’m an irresponsible godfather?”  Sirius hissed, so incensed at this point that he could've broken something through sheer will alone.

 

    “Meaning you have been known to act rashly, Sirius, which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to stay at home and-”

 

“We’ll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of this, if you please!”  Sirius spat out.

 

“Arthur!”  Molly rounded on her husband, and Sirius mentally sneered.  “Arthur, back me up!”

 

    Arthur remained silent for a moment, taking off his glasses and cleaning them slowly on his robes, not looking at his wife.  Only when he had replaced them carefully on his nose did he reply.  “Dumbledore knows the position has changed, Molly.  He accepts that Harry will have to be filled in, to a certain extent, now that he is staying at Headquarters.”

 

Sirius rolled his eyes.  In other words, Arthur had reiterated Dumbledore’s words and hadn't taken a position on either side of the argument.  Then again, as far as Sirius could tell, the Headmaster didn't want Harry to know anything no matter what that twinkly-eyed senile old man said.

 

“Yes, but there’s a difference between that and inviting him to ask whatever he likes!”

 

“Personally,” Remus said quietly, ever the appeaser, and Molly turned quickly to him, hopeful that finally she was about to get an ally.  Sirius’ jaw tightened at the unfairness of it all.  “I think it better that Harry gets the facts – not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture – from us, rather than a garbled version from... others.”

 

Sirius snorted, crossing his arms.  _Everyone_ in the room knew about those Extendable Ears, and the fact that there was no way that Molly had managed to get rid of every single one.

 

“Well,” Molly breathed in deeply and looked around the table for further support that did not come.  “Well... I can see I’m going to be overruled.  I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has Harry's best interests at heart-”

 

“He’s not your son,” Sirius cut in, voice dangerously soft as his heart jolted violently in his chest.

 

“He’s as good as,” Molly claimed scathingly.  “Who else has he got?”

 

Sirius gritted his teeth.  “He’s got me!”

 

“Yes,” Molly’s lip curled contemptuously.  “The thing is, it’s been rather difficult for you to look after him while you’ve been locked up in Azkaban, hasn’t it?”

 

Sirius felt like he couldn't breathe, and there was a haze of red-hot rage that bordered on madness clouding his brain.  How _dare_ this _bitch_ \- James had made _him_ godfather- She _had no right_ \- ‘Son’ his _arse_ -

 

“Molly, you’re not the only person at this table who cares about Harry,” Remus interjected sharply, and for a moment, through the fog in his head ( _that felt a lot like Azkaban and Dementors and cold, dark, never-ceasing nightmares_ ), Sirius thought that maybe Moony would defend him, just like old times, just like Before, when it was the Marauders against the world, but then- “Sirius, sit down.”

 

...Was that it?

 

Sit down?

 

_Sit down?_

 

Suddenly feeling as lethargic and muddled as one would in a dream, Sirius stumbled back a step and slowly began sinking back into his chair, hands shaking, _hurtacrimonywhywon’tyoudefendmeMoony_ choking his throat and squeezing his heart in a vice-like grip until he couldn't _breathe_ -

 

“What do you mean ‘sit down’?”

 

Sirius almost fell out of the seat he had just taken again, his godson’s voice coming so out of the blue that it threw him for a loop, and when he looked up, he was astounded to find Harry out of his own chair, book forgotten, and standing beside Sirius, green eyes narrowed and fuming behind his glasses.

 

“Harry-” Remus started in a placating tone of voice.

 

If anything, this just riled Harry up even further.  The kid squared his shoulders as if preparing for battle.

 

“What do you mean ‘sit down’?”  Harry repeated unrelentingly, scowling at Remus.  “Didn't you hear what she said?”

 

Remus faltered, looking uncertain, but Harry didn't wait for an answer, turning to face Molly instead who suddenly looked out of her depth as if she wasn't used to Harry talking back to her.  From what Sirius had gleaned over the past two years, Harry _wasn't_ one for verbal throwdowns, not really.  Normally, when the kid truly wanted to stand his ground on a matter, he would show it through his actions, not words.

 

Although Sirius supposed there was plenty of action going on right now.

 

                “Mrs. Weasley,” Harry stated, and there was an inflexible cadence in his voice that Sirius had never heard before.  If several of the others’ expression were anything to go by, neither had they.  “I appreciate the kindness that you and your family have shown me over the past four years, I really do, but Sirius didn't cool his heels in the vacation home for deranged felons because the Dementors gave good spa treatments, and implying anything of the sort is just plain spiteful.”

 

                Regardless of the subject conversation, Sirius had to bite back a reflexive grin even as the twins released simultaneous snorts from their corner.

 

“I admit,” Harry continued without so much as a smile, paying no mind to the byplay.  “That he was reckless in going after Wormtail but he paid for it in full, and he got back to me as soon as he could.  If anyone has the right to complain about him, it’s me, and I _don’t_ have any complaints, not about that.”

 

                His chin tilted up half an inch, defiance in every line of his body, and there was something almost... _aristocratic_ in the way he stood and stared down the formidable Weasley matriarch.

 

                “I understand that you are worried about me, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry finished curtly.  “And I am grateful for that.  But that doesn't give you any right to say what you said to Sirius.  You are not my mother, but Sirius _is_ my godfather.  My parents entrusted me to him in the event that they couldn't take care of me themselves, so no one in this room, in this country, in this _world_ , has more say over my wellbeing than Sirius does.”

 

                A deafening holy-Merlin-what-just-happened silence prevailed over the dining room.  No one seemed to know how to react.  Remus was blank-faced and silent.  Hermione looked scandalized.  Ron’s ears were the colour of his hair.  Arthur was frozen in his seat.  And Molly had gone completely scarlet, perhaps angry or embarrassed or both.

 

                And Harry, still a teenager in the end, flushed red as well, but his fists remained mutinously balled, his gaze never wavered, and there was no apology or remorse anywhere in his expression.  He had meant every word, and he clearly didn't plan on taking any of it back.

 

                And right at that moment, Sirius could've given the boy the universe as a representation of what he was feeling and still not have been able to show just how happy he was.

 

                Harry glanced back at him, still thoroughly self-conscious and evidently trying to gauge Sirius’ reaction.  Sirius just let a grin split his face, proud and feeling like his heart might grow too big for his chest, as cheesy as that sounded.  Without a word, he flicked his wand at Harry’s chair so that it skittered over to his side, and then promptly dragged Harry into it.

 

                Harry rolled his eyes but finally smiled back, the colour in his cheeks receding back to normal again.

 

                “So,” Sirius broke the silence jubilantly.  “Obviously, we can’t tell you everything, but you can ask, and we’ll see what we _can_ tell you.  What do you want to know?”

 

                “I want to know what’s been going on,” Harry said at once, reverting back to a curious teenager instead of that peculiarly mature persona from earlier.  “Where’s Voldemort hiding right now?  What’s he been doing?”

 

                They both ignored the shudders around the room.

 

                “Well,” Sirius began.  “There’s not been-”

 

                “Fine!”  Molly cut him off, her voice cracking, and she turned over-bright eyes on her children.  “Fine!  Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George – I want you out of this kitchen now!”

 

                The uproar that followed was loud and long, and by the time it ended, the twins, Ron, and Hermione were allowed to stay, and Ginny threw a fit on her way back to her room, though Sirius didn't know what Molly was thinking since he was sure that Hermione would be telling the girl everything the moment they were alone.

 

                In the end, Harry asked less questions than Sirius had expected, all of them to-the-point and insightful, but at the same time, they leaned slightly on the disinterested side as if Harry wasn't too fussed about wringing answers from them at all, and ultimately, it was the other kids, even Hermione, who persisted nosily into the Order’s movements and actions while Harry sat back and absorbed it all, hands fiddling with his book as he took in everything that was said.

 

                By the time Molly finally snapped and ordered them all upstairs (still unable to look directly at Harry even as she did so), only her children offered a token protest.  Harry simply tucked his book under one arm, murmured a goodnight to Sirius, accepted the tight hug that Sirius wrapped him in, and then meandered out of the room.

 

                Very strange.

 

**XI.**

 

                Harry waited until Ron’s snoring filled the room before he took out his pocket watch, pulled the covers over his head, and switched the setting to the two-way mirror.  A focused thought later, Reg’s face shimmered into existence above the timepiece, casting a dim light in the darkness of the bedroom.

 

                “Draw your bed curtains, Harry,” Reg advised by way of greeting.  “They have a Silencing Ward on them.”

 

                Oh,” Harry said rather densely as he pushed himself upright and hastily yanked the curtains close.

 

                “Busy day?”  Reg enquired as Harry settled down again, sitting up and leaning against the headboard this time as he held the watch in front of him.

 

                “It was okay,” Harry made a face.  “Professor Moody flew us halfway around the world before we finally got here.”

 

                Reg chuckled, and out of sight, something that sounded like glass clinked against a tabletop.  “Sounds like him.  I never personally knew him but his paranoia is legendary.  How are you liking Grimmauld Place?”

 

                “There are mounted _house-elf heads_ on the walls!”  Harry muttered, more than a little disturbed.

 

                Reg looked rueful this time.  “Some pureblood families are like that.  It used to be tradition for a family’s house-elves to have their heads cut off and mounted on a plaque in return for their lifetime of loyal service.  It’s supposed to be an honour.”

 

                Harry couldn't imagine why.  Literally.  “So you mean people like the Malfoys...?”

 

                “Oh no,” Reg looked amused now.  “The Malfoys stopped that tradition a long time ago.  Crude, they thought it to be, not to mention bad for the decor, and it scared their peacocks.  And I can just imagine Narcissa’s face if anyone ever so much as suggests it to her.  She never did like house-elves, not even live ones half the time.”

 

                Harry had only ever met Malfoy’s mum once, and she had already looked distasteful of everything around her at the time.  Merlin only knew how she’d react if someone mentioned house-elf heads stuck to her house’s walls.

 

                “You know Mrs. Malfoy?”  Harry asked curiously.

 

                Reg inclined his head.  “She’s six years older than me so we were at Hogwarts together.  Her maiden name is Black.  She’s your godfather’s cousin.”

 

                “Sirius is related to the Malfoys?!”  Harry yelped.

 

                “All purebloods are related to each other,” Reg said dismissively.  “Didn't I mention that before?  _You're_ related to the Blacks as well.  Your... grandmother on your father’s side was Dorea Potter née Black.  She married Charlus Potter.  Dorea was also your godfather’s great-aunt, which technically makes Si- Black your cousin, however distant.”

 

                Harry’s head reeled from all the relations.  “Purebloods really like marrying one another, huh?”

 

                Reg huffed a laugh before a wineglass appeared and the man took a sip.  “Yes they do.  It’s that blood purity rot.  Your godfather’s parents, Orion and Walburga, were second cousins.”

                “And they _married_?”  Harry could barely imagine it.  “Isn't that- Well obviously it’s not illegal or anything but isn’t that bad for family lines in the long run?”

 

                “Indeed,” Reg agreed.  “Have you met any Crabbes or Goyles?”  Harry nodded with dawning realization.  “What do you think happened to them?  They weren’t dropped on their heads as babies.  Not that I know of anyway.”

 

                “Wow,” Harry said, mildly perturbed as he shook his head.

 

                “Exactly,” Reg hummed, taking another sip of red wine.  They were quiet for a while after that as Harry digested everything.

 

                “Draco Malfoy’s my cousin as well,” Harry groused sulkily.  “Brilliant.”  He paused.  “You know a lot about bloodlines.”

 

                “I was made to learn,” Reg revealed.  “Most pureblood children are, though a lot of the time, they’re only required to learn their patriarchal heritage since that’s where the heir would be inheriting from.  Draco Malfoy, for example, will become the next Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, not Black, so he wouldn't really need to know his mother’s lineage.”

 

                “Who would inherit for the Blacks then?”  Harry frowned.  “Sirius doesn't have any children-”

 

                “-so he’ll probably name you,” Reg shrugged in response to Harry’s dropped jaw.  “What did you think he would do?  You're his godson, the closest thing he has to an offspring of his own.”

 

                Harry nodded distractedly.  “You know a lot about the Blacks.”

 

                Reg acknowledged this with a noncommittal nod.  “I do.”

 

                Harry straightened a bit.  “...Today, when I saw Sirius, his eyes... You remember, a few weeks ago, back before you even told me your name, I told you that you seemed familiar?  I finally figured out who you remind me of.  You have the same eyes as Sirius, and you laugh like him too.  ...Who are you?”

 

                Infuriatingly enough, Reg didn't so much as bat an eye.  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

 

                “If I’ll find out soon enough, why won’t you just tell me now?”  Harry complained.

 

                Reg smiled rather indulgently at him.  “It would be poor form on my part if I tell you everything instead of letting you figure things out by yourself.  We wouldn't want you to become even more stupid, now would we?”

 

                Harry scowled half-heartedly at the serenely delivered insult.  “Fine.  You have to have been in Grimmauld Place before though, or you wouldn't know its location, not to mention all the stuff you know about the Order.  You sound like you've practically been at the meetings, but you said you're not one of them.  You're not some sort of ghost haunting Grimmauld Place, are you?”

 

                This startled a light laugh out of Reg.  “Ghosts don’t have corporeal bodies, kid.  I'm as alive as you are, don’t worry.”

 

                “ _Have_ you been in Grimmauld Place?”  Harry persisted doggedly.  “Wait, no; _are_ you in Grimmauld Place?  Right now?”

 

                Reg heaved a disparaging sigh.  Harry thought this was highly uncalled for.  “Hey, I'm figuring things out for myself; you should be ecstatic!”

 

                Reg arched an eyebrow at him before downing the rest of his wine and then evidently picking up his watch as the wizard’s image shook.  “I’ll be even more ecstatic if you learn some patience.  Tomorrow, Harry.  For now, I shall bid you goodnight.”

 

                And with that, the watch dimmed, and the link was cut, engulfing the bedroom in darkness once more.

 

Harry glowered sullenly.  Not fair.

 

**XII.**

 

                “You had a brother,” Harry said faintly, staring at the wall-hanging.  Sirius had been showing him around the house, and they had stopped at a tapestry of the Black family tree.

 

                A tapestry with the name ‘Regulus Arcturus Black’ shown clearly at the very bottom of the tree.  According to it, Regulus had died in 1979.

 

                “Yeah, he was younger than me,” Sirius confirmed, his mouth a harsh slash on his face.  “A much better son, as I was constantly reminded.  Stupid idiot... he joined the Death Eaters.”

 

                ( _“Worst decision of my life, and trust me when I say I’ve made quite a few bad ones.”_ )

 

                “And you let him?”  The words slipped out before Harry could censure them, more accusing than he had meant them to be.  After last night, after defending Sirius, and Sirius looking at him with that strange expression full of surprised wonder as if he couldn't believe Harry was real, he had thought that their relationship would only get better from that point on, but right now, Harry was having a hard time remembering why he shouldn't punch his godfather in the face.

 

                Sirius stiffened and glanced at him before shrugging.  “It was his choice, and he was thick enough to believe our parents.”

 

                “Most children would,” Harry couldn't help saying.

 

                “I didn't!”  Sirius said defensively.

 

                “No,” Harry agreed, still not looking at his godfather.  “You just ran away to my dad’s house.”

 

                “Exactly,” Sirius nodded, though it was tentative at best as if he could sense something off with Harry.

 

                “And you left him behind,” Harry continued, hands clenching involuntarily in his sweater pockets.

 

                Sirius bristled.  “He was our parents’ golden boy.  They probably pampered him even more after I left him there-”

 

                (“... _we usually have to help ourselves.”  “Yeah, I know the feeling, kid.”_ )

 

“-bet my parents thought he was a right little hero for joining up.  In the end, he was murdered by Voldemort though.  Or on Voldemort's orders, more likely; I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person.  From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out; brainless little coward, as if you could just turn in your resignation or something-”

 

( _‘The person who will tell you about me will not have very nice things to say, and I do not blame him for it.  He has no idea I survived, and no idea that I had left the Dark Lord’s service even before I had ‘died’.’_ )

 

“What if he had left Voldemort’s service?”  Harry spoke up abruptly, still staring woodenly at the tapestry, at R.A.B.  “What if he thought Voldemort was wrong and that was why he tried to leave?  To stand up to Voldemort?”

 

Sirius snorted.  “If _that_ were true, and Regulus actually tried to leave because of it, well, that takes guts, Harry.  He would've been turning against everything our dear parents ever taught him.  He’d have to be a... a bloody _Gryffindor_ to have the bollocks to turn his back on Voldemort of all people, and let me tell you something, Harry, my brother was many things but he wasn't brave.  Couldn't even stand up to our parents; he never put a toe out of line if he could help it.  Voldemort would've been out of the question.  Nah, even if Reggie did see something wrong with Voldemort’s campaign, he would've been too much of a coward to do anything but run away, much less stand up to the Dark Lord.”

 

“And how would you know that?”  Harry challenged, rounding on his godfather and finally looking up at him.  “You left him behind, remember?”

 

Sirius stared back at him, gaping slightly and frowning in consternation.  Before he could say anything though, Harry had turned on his heel and marched out of the room without another word.

 

As soon as he hit the hallway, he was off, sprinting up the stairs back to the room he shared with Ron, closing and bolting the door behind him, and then diving for his bed and all but ripping the curtains shut in one go.

 

“Reg!”  Harry gasped out before the image in the air had even finished smoothing out.  “Reg!  Where are you?”

 

Reg just watched him, cool grey eyes so much like Sirius’ yet not at the same time.

 

Harry sighed impatiently.  “You saw the whole thing, didn't you?  Just now, with Sirius?  Are there like spy-holes in this house?”

 

Still no answer.  Reg’s features might as well have been carved out of stone.

 

Harry frowned.  “You realize this changes nothing, right?  I can’t believe Sirius just left you behind and ran away on his own!  You would've been fourteen, right?  Not even fifteen yet?  I don’t care what Sirius says; there’s no way that woman in the portrait downstairs could _pamper_ _anyone_ -”

 

“Harry,” Reg interrupted softly, and Harry’s mouth clicked shut.  “Harry, who am I?”

 

Harry straightened.  “Regulus.  Regulus Arcturus Black, former Death Eater, former heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Sirius’ younger brother, and...” He shot Reg a mulish look.  “My goduncle.”

 

Reg stared.  Harry stared back.

 

And then Reg closed his eyes and leaned away, moving out of the frame for a moment.  A strangled sound came through, somewhere between a laugh and a rusty sob, before Reg came back, the horrible blank mask from before nowhere in sight, and looking at Harry like Sirius had yesterday, like he couldn't believe Harry was real.

 

“ _Why_ did you think something would change?”  Harry demanded, torn between affronted and bewildered.  “I _told_ you nothing would change.  What does it matter if you're Sirius’ brother?  If anything, that just gives me _more_ of a reason to stick around you.”

 

Reg just shook his head.  “I... Harry, you have to understand, I'm not used to people... staying.  Sirius left.  Andy left.  Cissa left.  Bellatrix was never here to begin with; she broke very early on in her life.  Mother only put up with me, first as incentive for Sirius to stick around and be more like the pureblood heir that she and Father wanted, and then, after he left, I was the only one who could carry on the Black name, nothing more.  Have you heard of the saying ‘an heir and a spare’?  I was the spare.  They only wanted me because I was the respectable son.  Sirius was the one who should’ve been that.  The firstborn, you know?  There’s a certain prestige that comes with that particular title.  But that didn't turn out very well; Sirius ran away and I was the only one left.”

 

Reg’s eyes were distant now.  “A large part of why I acted the way Mother wanted me to was because I wanted her to like me.”  He offered a fractured smile.  “Obviously, that didn't work out either.”

 

Harry was quiet for a long minute.  “...Well, who needs her?  She’s dead anyway, and I could always use a second god... relative.  You give better advice than Sirius does, that’s for sure.”

 

Reg looked highly pleased at this but did his best to curb that emotion.  “Sirius is a better duellist than I am.  Practically everyone in my family is.  I prefer defence to offence.”

 

Harry scowled a little at the thought of his godfather.  How could anyone say that about their own sibling?  Harry had none of course but he had always believed that if he _did_ , he’d always try to protect them and vice versa when it came down to it no matter what arguments or fights they got into.

 

“Bellatrix?”  Harry switched topics instead, shifting his thoughts away from Sirius as he recalled the tapestry.  “And Andy would be Andromeda?  And Cissa is Narcissa Malfoy, right?”

 

“Yes,” Reg nodded.  “Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa – me and Sirius’ cousins.  Andy was the smart one; got out while she could and married for love.  Cissa’s marriage to Lucius was arranged but they're a good match, and I think they actually do love each other, though of course, they reserve any and all affections towards each other and their son for when they’re behind closed doors.  Cissa is very family-oriented.  As for Bellatrix... she’s even worse than Mother, and I don’t say that for just anyone.  From the updates Kreacher has given me over the past decade and a half, Bellatrix was one of the Death Eaters who tortured the Longbottoms into insanity.”

 

Harry jolted.  “Longbottoms?  I have a friend – Neville – he’s-”

 

“Probably their son,” Reg surmised.  “How unfortunate.  If you ever bump into her, Harry, and you probably will sooner or later, keep in mind that Bellatrix Lestrange is one of the most dangerous people you will ever meet in your entire life.”

 

A chill ran down Harry’s spine.  “Sounds like I should avoid her.”

Reg smiled, humourless and dark.  “You can certainly try, but she is the Dark Lord’s favourite.  Once she’s out of Azkaban, wherever Voldemort goes, she’ll never be far behind.”

 

Even a simple warning like that sounded ominous.

 

“...Kreacher’s a bit mad,” Harry said for lack of anything better as he tried to put Bellatrix out of his mind.  There was no use worrying about her now.

 

Reg chuckled.  “Just a little, but he’s nowhere near as mad as he portrays himself to be.  Maybe he would've been had I truly died all those years ago but he had me to ground him and concentrate on once Mother had died so he’s still quite sane even now.  He just likes screwing with my brother’s head, that’s all.  Kreacher’s my best friend.”

 

Harry couldn't decide whether this was just weird or the saddest thing he had ever heard.  He had nothing against house-elves (so long as they weren’t Dobby on a heroic streak) but this was... “Your... best friend?”

 

“Kreacher saved my life,” Reg said somberly.  “Approximately sixteen years ago, I struck a blow against Voldemort and almost paid for it with my life.  If Kreacher hadn't circumvented my orders and come back for me, I’d be very much dead right now.  As it is, I still spent the last sixteen years in a coma.”

 

“ _Sixteen years?!_ ”  Harry exclaimed.  “That’s why everyone thinks you're dead!  You weren’t even actively hiding; you were unconscious!”

 

Reg nodded.  “I woke up a few months before I met you.”

 

“Are you...” Harry squinted at the older wizard’s short brown hair.  “What do you really look like?”

 

Reg blinked at him, and then a smile curved his lips.  “Why don’t you come and see?”

 

Harry sat up.  “Are you in the house right now?  How has no one caught you yet?”

Reg scoffed.  “Please, do you really think what you’ve seen of the house so far is all there is of the Black family’s ancestral home?  Sirius was never fully trained to be the heir; he ran away before he learned everything.  The only one who knows all the secrets in this house is me, and I'm certainly not informing the Order of the Stuffed Turkey about them.”

 

He paused when the sound of someone banging on the bedroom door reached their ears, and Sirius’ voice came through, a little awkward and a little desperate.  _“Harry?  Are you in there?  Listen, I'm sorry if I upset you.  I’ve just never gotten along very well with my family, and this place brings back bad memories.  We could... talk about something else, or you could at least come down for lunch?  Molly’s just about done with a tray of sandwiches.”_

 

“Don’t be mad at him, Harry,” Reg admonished quietly.  “Sirius was always strong-willed, even when we were children.  If someone told him to do something he didn't like, then he wouldn't do it.  If he believed something to be wrong, then he wouldn't do it.  He always stayed true to himself.  That’s the sort of person he was, and he never could understand why it was so difficult for people like me to do the same.”

 

Reg shrugged, and Harry wondered if the man knew just how bitter and defeated he looked in that moment.

 

“Sirius tried to feed Snape to Professor Lupin,” Harry revealed, because while he pretty much despised Snape, he didn't want the man dead, and if attempting to kill Snape via werewolf wasn't wrong, then Sirius had clearly missed a few lessons on differentiating right from wrong.  “And _you_ told me he was a bully.”

 

“Ah, well,” Reg coughed.  “What I meant was that Sirius stuck to his ideals when it came to the life-defining moments.  At all other times, especially when he was a teenager, he was...”

 

“A bully,” Harry finished flatly.  “Who almost killed a student.  And I don’t care if my dad _did_ save Snape; I bet he only did that to save Professor Lupin.  Which is just great.  My dad didn't care if someone died either.”

 

Reg sighed.  “Look, Harry, that werewolf incident – Severus told me about it; swore me to secrecy and everything since he technically wasn't supposed to say anything, not to mention he told me beforehand that he was going to ‘pay the Marauders back’ that night, and all because Sirius had goaded him into it.  But it wasn't as if it was a huge secret either.  There’s only so many times over the course of six years watching Lupin come back every month to the Great Hall the day after the full moon looking exhausted before you figure out that there’s something more than a bunny problem going on.  I don’t know about the other Houses because they can be pretty ignorant when they want to be, but by the time Lupin graduated, most of the upper years of Slytherin knew what he was.  We just never said anything about it.  Slytherin subtlety and all that.

 

“So when Severus went to the Whomping Willow, being as intelligent as he was despite that very occasion indicating otherwise, he already suspected what Lupin was.  I really should’ve done more to convince him not to but he’s completely unreasonable when it comes to the Marauders.  He only went there that night to try and get Lupin in trouble.  Sev was at fault in that incident as well, even though what Sirius did was worse.  But like I said, most of Slytherin already knew before Lupin even graduated.  We just never said anything because: one, Dumbledore _had_ to have known about it and had allowed it anyway, and two, there was no personal gain in snitching on Lupin if he already had permission to be there.”

 

“Malfoy and the other snakes all sent letters home when Snape revealed that Professor Lupin was a werewolf though,” Harry argued, and Reg snorted.

 

“Not very cunning of them then,” Reg looked disgusted.  “And I bet Sev encouraged them too; his hatred of the Marauders knows no bounds.  Back in my day, a Slytherin would never snitch, at least not without a purpose, and from what you've told me, Lupin was a decent professor.  At the very least, a real Slytherin would've hoarded the information away to blackmail Lupin for a better grade or something, though knowing Lupin, that probably wouldn't have worked.  Still, at least they would've done it for personal gain.  Slytherins these days; utterly mindless.”

 

                Harry snickered, and then looked up again when Sirius knocked once more.  _“Harry?  Did you fall asleep or are you ignoring me?  At least give me a yes or no, won’t you?”_

 

“I have to go,” Harry said reluctantly.

 

“Come to the library later when you have time,” Reg told him.  “One of the secret entrances leading to the rest of this house is there.  Make sure you're alone.”

 

Harry grinned, bidding Reg a see-you-later before closing the pocket watch.  He’d probably have to sneak out after everyone was asleep but it’d be more than worth it.

 

He couldn't wait.

 

**XIII.**

 

                “Whoa,” Harry said, still sounding somewhat amazed.

 

                Regulus sighed in exasperation and just a little discomfiture.  “Harry, at the very least, please say that when you're looking at the rest of the house, not at _me_.”

 

                Harry had the decency to look apologetic but persisted, “You look a lot like Sirius.”

 

                “He _is_ my brother,” Regulus reminded him.

 

                “But you have longer hair,” Harry continued stating the obvious.  “And you're smaller.”

                Regulus’ eyebrows ticked up in annoyance.  “Yes, thank you, I am aware.  ...I’m not _that_ much smaller.  An inch shorter at most.  And a little less broad in the shoulders but who wants to be brawny?”

 

                Harry snickered at that, and Regulus cuffed the kid over the head.  Brat.

 

                “You're really thin though,” Harry frowned, looking concerned now.  “Sirius is too but you're worse.  Have you been eating regularly?”

 

                Regulus couldn't help it; he rolled his eyes.  “Kid, you're not my mother.  ...Thank Merlin for that actually.  Still, you don’t have to worry so much.  I already have Kreacher fussing over me.”

 

                As if on cue, Kreacher appeared with a loud crack, making Harry jump.

 

                “Master Regulus would like a late snack?”  The elf enquired slyly.  His eyes drifted over to Harry, and after a moment’s hesitation, he offered grudgingly, “Would Master Regulus’ guest like a snack as well?”

 

                Harry’s mouth dropped open, and Regulus nudged him in chastisement before nodding at Kreacher.  “A snack would be nice, Kreacher.  Send something to the second drawing room please?  We’ll be there shortly.”

 

                Kreacher bowed and disappeared again.  Harry shook his head.  “I’ve only seen him once since I got here and he just ignored me then.  I suppose that _was_ better since he pretty much insulted everyone else in the room.”

 

                Regulus chuckled, leading Harry down another hallway.  “Kreacher doesn't like many people, especially when they're somehow related to Sirius.”

 

                “ _You're_ related to Sirius,” Harry pointed out.  “ _I’m_ related to Sirius.”

                “Yes, but you're also related to me,” Regulus expounded.  “And I’ve been friends with Kreacher before I even entered Hogwarts.  On the other hand, Sirius never treated Kreacher very well.  Sometimes, I find my dear brother to be something of a hypocrite.  For all that he vocally shunned our parents’ beliefs and principles ever since we were kids, Sirius treats Kreacher almost as badly as Mother did.  Of course, Sirius was the rebellious one but not even I followed our mother’s orders all the time, and Kreacher always tried to take my side in any confrontation.”

 

                Regulus smiled fondly at the thought.  Obviously, the house-elf hadn't been able to outright disobey the lord and lady of the house back then but Kreacher had always helped Regulus as best he could in any situation.

 

                “You've also been getting me to eat,” He added.  “And Kreacher was rather thrilled with an ally on that front so I suspect he’ll be making an exception for you.”

 

                Harry shook his head.  “I don’t know why house-elves always seem to make exceptions for me.  Dobby’s like that too.  At least Kreacher won’t be as fanatical about it.  He calls Hermione a... a Mudblood though, and everyone else blood traitors.”

 

                Regulus shrugged lightly.  “Words like that were commonplace in the Black home.  In the end however, they're only labels, and they only define you if you let them.  And I mean no offence when I say this, Harry, but I really could not care less about your friends’ sensitivities, which is why I have not ordered Kreacher to stop.”  He hesitated.  “Nevertheless, if you prefer it, I could...”

 

                “Could _I_ try asking him?”  Harry suggested, eyeing Regulus critically.  “If he does it again the next time, I mean?  I think... I don’t think he’d respect me as much – or at all – if I asked you to ask him _for_ me.  Not calling my friends by those names is something _I_ want, not you, so I should be the one to ask.”

 

                Regulus paused in the doorway of their destination, surveying Harry with something akin to respect.  How the hell had someone like James Potter managed to gain – _deserve_ – someone like Harry for a son?

 

                “If that is what you want,” Regulus acquiesced, guiding Harry into the drawing room where hot chocolate and scones were already waiting on the table.  “You’d certainly have better luck with it than Sirius.”

 

                “Yeah,” Harry agreed dryly.  “But then Sirius doesn't so much as ask Kreacher to do something as insult him back, so that’s not so hard to do.”

 

                “Fair enough,” Regulus conceded as they sat down.  “Tensions between the occupants of this household aside, how are you liking the rest of the Black home?”

 

                “It’s definitely cleaner,” Harry said at once as he looked around, munching on a lemon scone as the fire crackled merrily in the background.  “This is the _second_ drawing room?”

 

                “Yes, there are four in total,” Regulus revealed.  “This is the guest wing, you could say, but the Blacks didn't really have guests over so Mother and Father just used this wing as their personal quarters away from the rest of the house.  There are quite a few bedrooms as well, not to mention a kitchen, and there are a number of passageways that lead down to the potions labs as well as to the second and third floors of the library.”

 

                Harry looked a little overwhelmed.  “I thought the library only had one floor; Sirius never mentioned anything.”

 

                “Like I said,” Regulus restated.  “Sirius doesn't know this house as well as he thinks he does.  The second and third floors hold some very Dark-inclined books, as well as scrolls and tomes containing family secrets that are only passed on to the heir, and eventually their spouse if the lord so chooses.”

 

                Harry hummed thoughtfully, still looking around.  “Is that a map of the stars over there?”

 

                Regulus followed his gaze and nodded.  “Yes, there are maps like that all over the house if you know where to look.  It’s tradition for most children in my family to be named after a star or a constellation so I guess that’s why we have astronomy charts all over the place.”

 

                Harry had gotten up and wandered over to the map hanging on the wall, and after picking up his hot chocolate, Regulus followed.

 

                “So most of the Blacks are named after stars?”  Harry peered at the tiny lettering beside each silver dot.  “I know Sirius is the Dog Star... here...”

 

                “Sirius is the brightest star in the sky,” Regulus pointed at the correct dot.  “Part of the Canis Major constellation.  Over there is Uncle Alphard, the brightest star in the Hydra constellation; Andromeda is right here, she gets an entire constellation for herself, though neither she nor Uncle Alphard’s names would ever be used again in the Black line since they’ve both been disowned; here’s Bellatrix, a star in the constellation Orion, and of course, Orion is my father, his constellation was named after that hunter in Greek mythology.  Great-aunt Cassiopeia is here, Grandfather Pollux over here, three Cygnus’s have come and gone, the second one was your great-grandfather actually, and the third one was my uncle.  Three Arcturus’s have also passed on, third one was my grandfather, and the second was your... great-uncle I believe.  Yes, he was your great-grandfather’s brother; your grandmother Dorea’s uncle.  Merlin, there are a lot of us.”

 

                Regulus glanced down at Harry who looked like he had tuned most of those relations out three sentences ago.  Regulus snorted into his drink; kid was lucky that it wasn’t Walburga Black giving him a rundown of their familial ties.

 

                “Oh, I found you!”  Harry piped up once more, pointing at one portion of the map.  “Hey, you're part of the Leo constellation.”

 

                Regulus smiled rather sardonically.  “Yes, the brightest star in the constellation Leo the Lion, and actually one of the brightest in the night sky.  It means ‘prince’ or ‘little king’ in Latin, although some people refer to that star as ‘Cor Leonis’, which translates to ‘Heart of the Lion’.  Ironic, isn’t it?  Considering which House I went to and everything I’ve done.  Don’t know what Mother was thinking naming me ‘Regulus’.  Probably didn't know about the double-meaning.  Sirius would laugh himself to death if he ever discovered that particular-”

 

                “And why should he?”  Harry rounded on him, green eyes suddenly blazing like precious jewels being forged in fire, and Regulus blinked, stunned enough to take a step back.  “I think your name fits you perfectly!  Sirius should never have called you a coward, or said any of those things; you _are_ brave, no matter what he says.  Besides, I'm a Gryffindor but I could be a Slytherin too, so it stands to reason that you can be a Slytherin and be a Gryffindor as well.”

 

                Regulus stared impassively at Harry’s defiant expression for a long moment, and then he quirked a tiny helpless smile and ruffled the boy’s mop of black hair before ushering him back towards the table.  “You're a good kid, Harry.”

 

                Harry’s cheeks stained red and he scowled at Regulus like a moody teenager but neither of them said anything more as they curled up in their respective armchairs and settled down to finish their midnight snacks.

 

                Later, when Harry nodded off by the fireplace, Regulus scooped the boy up, snuck out into the rest of the house, ghosted into the bedroom that the youngest Weasley boy was still snoring in, and tucked Harry back into bed with gentle hands, relieving him of his glasses as well before silently slipping away once more.

 

**XIV.**

 

                “Time for dinner!”

 

                At Mrs. Weasley’s third call of the evening, Harry took a seat at the table between Tonks and Sirius, who had become increasingly surlier as the days passed by.  Reg – whom Harry usually spent a few hours with every night, either talking or working on his Occlumency or learning something entirely new – had told him that Sirius had always been an active person, someone who preferred action over sitting around, and _nobody_ liked being locked up in one place anyway, especially for someone who had spent twelve years locked up in Azkaban.

 

                _“And for Sirius,”_ Reg had added dryly.  _“Grimmauld Place might as well be Azkaban.”_

 

                So Harry had done his best to engage his godfather in cleaning the house and chatting about anything either of them could think of, except Sirius – more and more often, especially after Harry had gotten mad at him for badmouthing Reg – preferred shutting himself up in his mother’s room with Buckbeak.

 

                To top it all off, Hermione hadn't stopped nagging him about his supposed guilt, Ron was backing Hermione, and the only reason Harry hadn't resorted to shouting at his two friends was because of his nightly reprieves with Reg, which was the only time he actually enjoyed himself.

 

                _‘I never thought I’d think this,’_ Harry mused glumly to himself as he waited for everyone else to join them at the table.  _‘But I wish I was back at the Dursleys.  At least then I wouldn't have to spend my afternoons waging war against a murderous house, waging war against my best friends, and waging war against Sirius’ moping when I could be learning Runes with Regulus.’_

 

                “Are we all here then?”  Mrs. Weasley asked as she bustled over to sit down between Mr. Weasley and Bill.  “Alright, dig in.  And Tonks, please watch your elbow.  The salt’s right there.”

 

                “Sorry, Molly,” Tonks hastily shifted the salt away, almost knocking a plate to the ground instead in the process, the accident narrowly avoided only because Harry managed to catch it before it teetered off the edge of the table.  “Oh, thanks, Harry.  Potatoes?”

 

                Harry grinned and nodded, holding up his plate as Tonks doled out a ladleful of mashed potatoes.  He rather liked Tonks, clumsiness and all, and while Reg had admitted that out of his three cousins, it had been Narcissa Malfoy who had been his favourite ( _“What?!  Are you_ sure _?”  “Brat, she’s different with family; trust me.”_ ), he had also said that Andromeda came a close second (while Bellatrix was a very far last), and the woman had done a good job raising her daughter.

 

                “Oh for goodness’ sakes, do you have to show up at dinnertime too?”  Sirius groaned acerbically, and Harry looked around for the source of his godfather’s irritation.  As he’d expected, Kreacher had just slunk in, mumbling to himself.

 

                And Harry only saw it because he had gotten into the habit of looking for it but he caught the furtive glint of derisive amusement in the house-elf’s eyes.

 

                “Kreacher is cleaning,” Kreacher defended, and then continued in an undertone, “Master insults Master just by being back here, oh yes, ungrateful blind Master never saw Lord Master drowning-”

 

                “He’s gone round the bend,” Sirius scoffed even as Harry’s insides went cold at the mention of Regulus drowning.  The older wizard still hadn't told him what exactly it had been that had almost caused his death sixteen years ago.  “What’s he even talking about now?  I swear he rambles on more about my father than my mother nowadays.”

 

                It was never Orion Black that Kreacher was talking about, Harry thought, though he kept it to himself.

 

                “Kreacher, maybe you can clean in here later,” Hermione chimed in kindly.

 

                Kreacher’s gaze immediately zeroed in on her with clear loathing.  “The thieving Mudblood dares talk to Kreacher as though she is my friend-”

 

                “Don’t call her a Mudblood!”  Half the table chorused angrily, and Harry sighed.  So far, besides his midnight visits to Reg’s part of the house, he actually hadn't seen much of Kreacher so he hadn't had the opportunity to make his request.  He supposed now was as good a time as any.

 

                “You damn elf,” Sirius seethed, looking mad enough to bodily chuck Kreacher out of the room like he had done just a few days ago.  _That_ had resulted in Harry giving Sirius the cold shoulder for the rest of the day before apologizing to Kreacher later that same night.

 

                “Sirius, stop it,” Harry sighed, because honestly, couldn't Sirius even _try_ to talk to Kreacher politely, just once, without any insults being thrown in?  Harry understood hating someone, he hated Snape with a passion but at least he knew how to keep a civil tongue around the man, no matter how much Snape sneered at him or let the Slytherins sabotage him in Potions.  Otherwise, Harry would have had a _lot_ more detentions and point deductions over the past four years.

 

                “Kreacher,” Harry bent down from his seat so that he was closer to the house-elf’s height.  Kreacher turned to eyeball him with a neutral expression.  “I know words like ‘Mudblood’ and ‘blood traitors’ used to be thrown around like candy in this house but would it be possible for you to tone it down a bit?  My friends really don’t like it, and I’d really appreciate it if you could stop.”

 

                There was a long silence.  Kreacher continued staring beadily at him for several seconds before muttering, “This is Master’s guest’s request?”

 

                Harry nodded.  “Yes, Kreacher.”

 

                Kreacher twitched, evidently unhappy about the situation in general, but there was something measured and calculating in the old elf’s gaze, as if he was assessing Harry, though for what, Harry didn't know.

 

And then, after another minute-long tense silence, Harry could almost hear the inward sigh of resignation from Kreacher before the elf grumbled out, “Master’s guest makes Master happy, so if Master’s guest so wishes, then Kreacher will stop.”

 

And with that said, the house-elf shot another look of utter abhorrence at the others sitting around the table, specifically at Sirius, but refrained from saying anything further, and to the entire room’s astonishment, Kreacher left without even the quietest of whispered slurs under his breath.

 

Harry straightened in his seat and turned back to his food, overlooking the staggered hush around him as he stuck a spoonful of potatoes in his mouth.

 

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron was the first to speak up.  “What did you bribe that old fruitcake with to make him agree?”

 

Harry frowned.  “Nothing, Ron, and don’t call him a fruitcake.  He’ll stop calling you people names so it’s only fair if you don’t call him anything rude either, right?”

 

“Don’t know why he’d listen to you though,” Sirius looked confused.  “Why in the world would Kreacher care whether or not you made me happy?  Not that you don’t, Harry; you do, very much.”

 

Harry inwardly snorted.  Did he really?  Did Harry make Sirius so happy that the man spent almost every waking moment in the company of a hippogriff over his godson?

 

As conversation slowly returned to the table, with Hermione beaming approvingly at him from her seat, Harry plastered on a smile and turned to Tonks.  “So you were telling me about your family yesterday.  You didn't get to finish that story about how Mrs. Tonks saved your dad from falling into a river without magic while still being a dozen feet away.”

 

Tonks laughed, hair turning bright pink and standing on end as she launched enthusiastically back into the tale she had been telling him yesterday during lunch, though she did tack on first, “Just call my mum Andromeda or Andy; none of that Mrs. Tonks nonsense, and Dad is Ted.  They wouldn’t mind.”

 

The rest of the evening took a turn for the better as Harry even managed to coax Sirius and Lupin into retelling some of the numerous Marauder stories they had, ignoring the wistful twinge in his own chest as they spoke so fondly of his father.

 

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed or had left, Harry joined Reg in the drawing room as per usual.  This time, he asked for a story about Regulus’ time at Hogwarts, and the anecdotes that the older wizard told him about the handfuls of times that Reg himself along with _Snape_ had pulled a prank only to frame it on the Marauders soon had Harry in stitches before the night was up.

 

**XV.**

 

                Sirius hesitated in the doorway, peering inside at his godson who was lying on his stomach on his bed with an array of parchment and books in front of him.  He hadn't noticed Sirius yet.

 

                Just an hour ago, Sirius had – Accidentally, honest!  He _had_ been trying. – aimed a kick at Kreacher when he had caught the house-elf lurking in front of a portrait of Nurmengard in the library and handing Harry a book.  Sirius had leapt to the conclusion that the book had to be dangerous and had charged in to save his godson.

 

                How was he supposed to have known that the book had really just been an obscure copy of _Advanced Charms: How to Weave Charms into Wards_ , and nothing Dark about it at all?

 

                But his kick had skimmed Kreacher’s arm, made the damn elf yelp, and Harry had rounded on him like a wolf defending its pack, yelling at Sirius (while Kreacher had looked smug on the side) before storming out of the library in a huff.

 

                Sirius had stewed morosely in a corner of the library by himself for the next hour before finally manning up and hunting Harry down.  And now that he had...

 

                He knocked twice, offering an uncertain smile when Harry’s head shot up and cool green eyes darted over to take him in.

 

                “Hey, Harry,” It was amazing how much Harry could make Sirius feel like he was an unruly teenager again, cowering under the lethal glare of Lily Evans after he and the other Marauders had done something stupid.  “Can I come in?”

 

                Harry shrugged but shifted on the bed and left a space that was as good as an invitation.  Sirius shuffled inside and took a seat, glancing absently at the sheaves of paper.

 

                “Runes?”  He remarked nonchalantly.  “I didn't know you took Runes.”

 

                “I don’t,” Harry said shortly.  “But I recently became interested in it and I was hoping if I studied enough, McGonagall might let me switch out of Divination either this year or next year.”

 

                Sirius had to make a face at all the studying that that would entail but he was soon sidetracked by one of the papers depicting a series of basic rune sigils and their meanings.  He was no expert at the subject since he had never taken it but he knew enough to at least recognize a handful of the fundamental runes.

 

                Still, it wasn't the runes themselves that caught his attention.  Instead, next to the black, slightly messy scrawl of his godson’s handwriting, his gaze fell on the green, elegant, cursive penmanship pointing out certain parts of Harry’s work that could be improved.

 

                Now, Sirius was perfectly aware that that handwriting could very well belong to Hermione or even Bill if Harry had asked one of them to look over his work.  However, Sirius had never seen Hermione’s writing before, and Bill’s, while neat, was typically much less flowing on a page than these letters were.

 

                And for some reason, Sirius was certain that he had seen this handwriting before, yet he couldn't quite recall where...

 

                A rustle broke him out of his contemplation, and a moment later, the page disappeared under a pile of other parchment.

 

                Sirius side-eyed his godson from out of the corner of his eye.  The kid looked guilty for just a second.

 

                “So what are you doing here anyway?”  Harry asked casually.  “Did you need something?”

 

                “No, I-” Handwriting forgotten, Sirius cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “I came to apologize.  For kicking Kreacher.”

 

                Harry squinted at him.  “You really should be apologizing to him, not me.  But I suppose that’s not going to happen.”

 

                Sirius winced, running a hand through his hair.  “Look, Harry, Kreacher has never liked me, and the feeling’s mutual-”

 

                “What has that got to do with anything?”  Harry demanded.  “I don’t like Malfoy but that doesn't mean I go around picking on him for no good reason.  Usually, it’s the other way around.”

 

                Sirius sighed gustily, scrubbing a tired hand over his face.  “That’s different.  Kreacher has never liked me because I've always defied my mother, and that elf practically worshipped the ground she walked on, Merlin only knows why; that old hag Crucio’d him whenever she thought he did something wrong.”

 

                Harry paled, and too late, Sirius remembered what had happened to his godson in the graveyard last June.

 

                But Harry just took a shaky breath and forged on.  “But he liked your brother.  Kreacher I mean.”

 

                Sirius snorted.  “I’ll say.  Kreacher adored him, all because Reggie was nice to him.”

 

                “You could be a little nicer to him then,” Harry said pointedly.

 

                Sirius threw his hands up.  “How can I when he’s the farthest thing from nice to _me_?”

 

                Harry gave him an uncompromising are-you-stupid look that, for some reason, brought with it a wave of nostalgia and sparked a distant memory in his mind, one that inexplicably made Sirius’ throat close up for a moment.

 

                And then it passed as Harry huffed out, “Any relationship goes both ways, Sirius.  How do you expect Kreacher to be nice to you if you're not at least civil to him?  He’s stopped calling everybody Mudbloods and blood traitors now; you could afford to stop spitting derogatory terms at him every time you clap eyes on him.”

 

                Sirius stared, partly because hearing his godson use a word like ‘derogatory’ was startling at best (what kind of respectable Gryffindor teenager in this day and age said ‘derogatory’?), and partly because... well, he was getting scolded by his aforementioned godson.

 

                Harry blew out an annoyed breath and turned away, and Sirius had the odd feeling that he had disappointed his godson.  “Whatever.  Look, I need to get this done-”

 

                “I’ll try!”  Sirius blurted out hastily.  “I’ll try to be nicer to Kreacher.  I’ll... If he continues keeping his insults to himself, I’ll do the same.  Okay?”

 

                Harry pinned him with another narrow-eyed hawk-like stare as if weighing Sirius’ trustworthiness, but then he rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back, a small smile working its way onto his face.  “Just try to be kind, Sirius.  You act like I'm asking you to be an angel or something equally unattainable.”

 

                Sirius barked out a laugh, relaxing now that Harry didn't seem mad at him anymore.  “Yeah, angel wouldn't work very well for a Marauder like me.  Or at the very least, I’d be a delinquent angel.”

 

                Harry spluttered out a laugh of his own, and Sirius beamed.  There, that was more like it.

 

                “So what are you doing anyway?”  Sirius asked inquisitively as he glanced at all the books again.  “You don’t _have_ to study now, do you?  Hermione and Ron have been complaining that you've been avoiding them.”

 

                Harry immediately scowled.  “You’d avoid them too if they kept badgering you about feeling guilty about Cedric’s death.  I'm over it but Hermione doesn't seem to think I can manage that on my own so I _must_ still be grieving, and I won’t _stop_ grieving until I talk to them about it!  It’s ridiculous!”

                Sirius’ eyebrows hit his hairline by the time Harry had finished his rant.  At the back of his mind, he was relieved that his godson still had some regular teenager left in him even though he had matured quite a bit this summer.

 

                “Well,” Sirius said carefully.  “I suppose they're just worried about you.  It _would_ seem a bit odd to them that you came back after a month with those Dursleys completely better, don’t you think?”

 

                Harry’s brow creased but Sirius was pleased to see that the kid was thinking about it.

 

                “Yeah, I know, but that’s not really what I'm mad about,” Harry muttered, righting himself to sit cross-legged on the bed.  “I... I told them about the person I met at the park.  Reg.  Hermione keeps accusing him of being some sort of... child molester.”

 

                The last two words were bitten out with such outrage that Sirius made a mental note to never use it himself, especially in context with that Muggle.  And then he reviewed what had been said and blanched.

 

                “He _didn't_ do anything to you, did he?”  Sirius asked cautiously, consciously noting the fact that that Muggle had about the same name as his brother.  What a coincidence.

 

                Harry all but snarled at him, looking frighteningly feral for a split second.  “No, of course not!  You think I’d be that stupid to keep returning to some person who would- would- do something like _that_ to me?  If he’d even _hinted_ at it, I never would've-”

 

                “Harry,” Sirius interrupted.  “That’s not what I mean.  I'm not accusing anyone of anything.  I'm just making sure.  Obviously, your Auror guards would've jumped in if he _had_ shown any intention of... _that_ , but sometimes, different perspectives, you know?  And your friends have never met your friend so they would naturally be worried.  Maybe if you just explain things to them in a little more detail, or tell them something of your Muggle friend so that he won’t seem quite as much of a stranger to them.”

 

                Harry calmed ever-so-slightly.  “Fine.  No, he didn't do anything.  We did crosswords, he taught me some French, and I talked to him about Cedric.”

 

                Sirius started, but before he could ask, Harry cut him off with a glower.  “Obviously, not in full detail.  But we talked it through, and it helped.  He’s a good listener.”

 

                “Oh, well, that’s good,” Sirius tried his best to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.  “What’s this Reg bloke like anyway?”

 

                Harry threw him an indecipherable look.  “...He’s quiet most of the time.  Not in a no-talking way or anything, though he doesn't run his mouth either; he talks to me, but he never shouts or loses his temper.  He’s patient when he’s teaching me, and he has a really dry sense of humour.  He’s smart too, genius level, I swear, and it isn’t just French he knows, Latin’s on the table too, and...”

 

                Sirius leaned back and let the words wash over him, listening, but at the same time, watching Harry’s face come alive as he talked about his Muggle friend with the sort of passion that no one could mistake for anything except admiration.

 

                Harry talked about Reg like the man was an adult – _almost parental_ – figure who was worth looking up to, and Sirius’ heart twisted.

 

                Not for the first time, he thought, enviously, jealously, _shamefully because if only he hadn't gone after Wormtail-_

 

_‘I want that.  Harry should know all the little details about me.  He should talk about me like that.  That should be me.’_

 

**XVI.**

 

                Regulus frowned as he flipped through the thick stack of documentation on the agreements and exchange of dowry that had been settled upon when Bellatrix had married Rodolphus.  He needed a way to get into the Lestrange vault, and this seemed as good a place as any to start.

 

It had been twenty-six years – almost to the day – since Bellatrix had married Rodolphus, and the lord of the Black house could now rightfully demand the return of the bride’s dowry because no heir had been produced to strengthen ties between the Blacks and the Lestranges within the twenty-five-year period clause that had been agreed upon in the arranged marriage when Bellatrix had been promised to the Lestranges’ firstborn all those years ago.

 

Imprisonment was all fine and dandy so long as it did _not_ tarnish the noble Black name, and going back on the marriage contract constituted as... well, tarnishing the noble Black name.

 

                It was lucky for Regulus though since all this just meant that he would now have a legal way into the Lestrange vault because said dowry was sitting in it right at this moment.  It was also extremely lucky that upon the event where the lord of the Black house was in some way unable to handle legal family matters – being convicted (goblins didn't give two shits whether or not you had been tried before a court; they just cared about the verdict) and on the run counted – meant that the job was to be passed down to the next most capable, meaning the next closest family member who would also be _in good standing_.

 

                If Regulus had been dead, that family member would've meant Narcissa Malfoy née Black since Andromeda Tonks née Black had been disowned.  However, Regulus _wasn't_ dead, and he had no criminal record to speak of whatsoever, which meant legal matters now fell to him.

 

                (And honestly, he would've had full control over the Black family anyway if Mother hadn't believed him to be dead and had been desperate enough to restore Sirius’ name in the family as her heir just to have _someone_ to continue the Black line.)

 

                However, there were a few problems to iron out, the first and foremost being that if Regulus really did have the dowry moved back to one of the Black vaults, then Sirius would find out sooner or later if and when he withdrew money again.  As a criminal, Sirius couldn't handle legal affairs between family vaults but he _could_ access his money just fine, and Regulus didn't really want to show his hand in this war until he absolutely had to.

 

                Secondly, there was also the pesky problem of the goblins not particularly liking having anything stolen from any of Gringotts’ vaults.  Regulus would be asking for the dowry; the Horcrux was not part of the dowry.

 

                Regulus sighed.  He had a plan of course, several plans in fact, as he always did, but all of them contained quite a liberal amount of Imperios in his near future.  Stealing from Gringotts was never a good idea.  Stealing from Gringotts in full view of goblins from the undoubtedly well-guarded Lestrange vault was ten times worse.

 

                “Reg!”

 

                Regulus glanced up at the black-haired green-eyed whirlwind who came running into the room.  “What’s the matter with you?  Did some of the books try to eat you?  I told you not to enter the third floor of the library.”

 

                “I didn't!”  Harry pulled up beside the table, slightly out of breath as his eyebrows shot up in alarm.  “Some of the books can eat me?!”

 

                Regulus smirked as he set aside his work, covertly burying everything under a volume of ministerial laws without drawing Harry’s attention to any of it.  “Of course; I take it you haven’t snuck into the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library before?”

 

                “I have, once,” Harry admitted, dropping three books onto the table before flopping rather gracelessly into the remaining chair.  Regulus idly made a mental note to teach the boy how to fix that.  Lords of Noble houses should not be so undignified.  “Back in my first year.  But the book I chose started screaming the second I opened it, and then I almost got caught by Filch and Snape.  I never went back again.”

 

                Regulus’ smirk grew, especially when Harry glowered at him.  “What awful luck; you probably set off one of the more bad-tempered texts.  Some books are more sentient than others, you know, and if they don’t like you, or you don’t treat them with respect, they’ll scream bloody murder.  Amongst other things.  But you should be thankful you didn't choose one of the grimoires; those ones could've swallowed you until someone like Madame Pince came along to free you or until it digested you.  Some of the worst ones go so far as to curse you or even consume your soul.  Books can be very dangerous.”

 

                Harry’s eyes were wide with childish fascination by the time he finished, and Regulus couldn't help smiling somewhat fondly at the boy, though he frowned inwardly at the same time.  Harry’s education was fairly lacking when it came to his knowledge of the wizarding world; no surprise there seeing how his parents had been killed so early.  Sentient books were among the knowledge that most children with one or more pureblood relatives would know, and it was ridiculous how Harry had been isolated to the point where he knew _nothing_.

 

                “I wish the professors at school taught stuff like this,” Harry commented glumly.  “Heck, I might even want to become a librarian just by hearing what you said.”

 

                Regulus cocked an eyebrow.  “Would you?  It’s certainly an option.  Being a librarian for a magical library is much more interesting than being one in the Muggle world where the books don’t come alive.  Not literally anyway.”  He paused in consideration.  “You’ll be entering fifth year so you’ll be meeting your Head of House to discuss your career options in the later mon...”

 

                He trailed off at Harry’s clueless expression, and then sighed in disgust.  “What is wrong with Britain’s education these days?”  He lamented to the world at large, surprising a sheepish laugh out of Harry.

 

                “Okay,” Regulus sighed again.  “At Hogwarts, fifth years and seventh years are required to see their Head of House to go over their future career plans.  For fifth years, it’s a more generalized interview where the Head of House would ask the student what vocation or vocations they’re considering, and then tell them how many OWLs and or extra courses they would need to continue on that path.

 

“For seventh years, it’s a bit more specific.  That interview would consist of the Head of House informing the student of how their marks are doing up to that point, and how many NEWTs they would need, as well as their best alternatives for post-graduation.  This might include apprenticeships straight out of school, or further studies at the handful of magical universities around the world to pursue a degree _before_ moving on to find a qualified master in their chosen field to apprentice under and earn their own Mastery, or – and this is mostly for those who apply to the Ministry – simply turning in your grades and résumé and waiting to see if you get the job you want.  For some departments in the Ministry, the Auror Department for example, if you _do_ get accepted – and most do; the higher-ups running that division prefer weeding out the unsuitable recruits themselves – then you would need to go through basic training in their Auror Academy.”

 

Regulus stopped, reaching out to take a sip of wine as he watched Harry scribble furiously in a notebook that the kid had taken to carrying around with him.  Regulus had found himself to be a rather random teacher, jumping from topic to topic without any set schedule, and imparting pieces of knowledge at any given moment, so Harry had decided – two weeks into their acquaintance back when he had still been at Privet Drive – to simply have something to write in with him at all times.

 

“ _Why_ don’t the teachers tell us this stuff?”  Harry griped.  “It’s kind of _important_!  I didn't even know there were magical universities out there!  I didn't even know you had to go through apprenticeships to earn a Mastery!  I didn't even know Masteries _existed_!”

 

“Nothing like a good whinging session to relieve stress,” Regulus quipped dryly.  “Let it all out; I'm available twenty-four-seven to receive any and all complaints at your convenience.”

 

“Reg!”  Harry protested indignantly, and then burst into laughter.  “Do you have a sarcastic follow-up for everything?”

 

“A quip for every occasion,” Regulus confirmed demurely, swirling his glass of wine in one hand.  “It seems to do you good, Harry.  You don’t laugh much, do you?”

 

“It’s not like you do either,” Harry pointed out.

 

“Ah, but I'm a crotchety old man,” Regulus declared dramatically, chuckling and holding up a hand to stall Harry’s immediate staunch objections.  “I am only joking, Harry.  Let us return to the matter at hand – the teachers _do_ tell you this; they just wait until fifth year to remind everyone since Muggleborns receive a notice at the beginning of the summer before their fifth year so that they will have time to talk it over with their guardians.  Half-bloods and purebloods are exempt since their guardians should already know about it.”

 

Regulus paused at the momentarily crestfallen expression on Harry’s face, but his eyes narrowed with approval when the kid visibly shook off the perceived injustice and resolutely moved past it.

 

“Well, it’s a good thing I have you then,” Harry concluded.  “I swear, sometimes, I think Sirius forgets that I grew up with a Muggle background.  Professor Lupin too, though he’s a little better about it.  Still, the way they look at me when they talk about some of the things they did with Dad back in the day like- like when they mentioned hanging up _fairy_ decorations for Yule, and I asked them to clarify – it’s like they don’t get why I would ask, like I'm supposed to just _know_.  It’s just... frustrating, you know?”

 

Regulus thought of the few times he had ventured out into the Muggle world out of curiosity when he had been a teenager.  Not even Mother had been able to curb his desire to know _more_ , though to be fair, the first time he had left a world he knew for a world he didn't, he had been a fourth-year, and it had been with Severus after his older friend had received a letter from his sick mother requesting him to come home for just a few hours because she had taken a turn for the worst, and Tobias Snape had left two years ago, leaving her alone (which, in Regulus’ opinion, then and now, had been a good thing).

 

However, Dumbledore – _this was one of the reasons that Regulus would never forgive that old sanctimonious bastard_ – had apologized in that grandfatherly believe-me-this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you way that made Regulus want to curse him when Severus had desperately asked to leave, but had turned the Slytherin down in the end, citing some shite about a rule against allowing students out of Hogwarts and pointing out patronizingly that Severus’ mother wasn't _dying_ so it wasn't an emergency.

 

Even back then, Regulus had seen how much Dumbledore disliked Slytherin no matter how the Headmaster acted.  Everyone disliked Slytherin, and the much-lauded leader of the Light was no different.  There was no benefit in letting Severus go since he didn't come from a powerful family that Dumbledore could attempt to twinkle his way into their good graces and play on their gratitude later, nor was Severus a Gryffindor.  The sticking point though had been the fact that – not five weeks prior – the Lupin-werewolf fiasco had taken place, and Regulus would've bet the entire contents of his Gringotts vault that Dumbledore had stopped Severus from going home as a punishment.

 

Severus wasn't one to cry but he had cried that night, and before Regulus had been able to consciously figure out what kind of bloody Gryffindor disease he had clearly been infected with, he had ended up packing two bags before smuggling Severus out of Hogwarts and Apparating them both all over the countryside until Regulus had finally gotten it right and jumped them onto Platform 9¾.  Personally, he had just counted himself lucky that he hadn't splinched either of them, though that particular jaunt all over Scotland had been what had kick-started his talent for Apparition.

 

After that, Severus had managed to lead them back to his house, and Eileen Prince’s sallow face had glowed with happiness at seeing her son.  Even her health had looked up, and in the end, she hadn't passed away until the summer of Severus’ sixth year.

 

Of course, they had gotten into trouble.  They had had to miss classes since Severus had stubbornly insisted on staying the night at home, and Regulus hadn't been able to Apparate them back before classes began the next day.

 

However, Regulus _had_ managed to convince Severus to lie about where they had been, that the older Slytherin had followed _Regulus_ out to drag him back because Regulus had wanted to see how repulsive Muggles were after listening to his mother talk about it all the time.  Regulus had done this for two reasons: one, Severus would've gotten into far more trouble if they had told the truth since he had had no pureblood family to help reduce the consequences of their actions, and two, Walburga Black would be more pleased with Regulus for his made-up reason than displeased with him for sneaking off school grounds.

 

Even as a teenager, Severus had been a scarily proficient Occlumens, and Regulus was a Black, enough said, so Dumbledore hadn't even been able to pluck their motive out of their heads.  He hadn't been able to disprove their explanation even though all three of them had known what the truth really was.

 

However, they had still gotten a month’s worth of detentions and a total of a hundred points’ deduction as punishment, and he had had to endure Sirius’ snide taunts and Potter’s jeers for being a Death Eater in training once the story had gotten out, but other than that, Regulus had counted that undertaking as an overall success.

 

Not to mention it had cemented his and Severus’ friendship.  That is, until Regulus had accepted the Dark Mark, and Sev had graduated, and Voldemort had become a reality to them anyway.  Things had gone downhill from there.

 

Still, even with half that first trip filled with Apparition, the latter half had seen Severus dragging him across highways and hitching a ride in a cab and a number of other Muggle things that had irritated Regulus to no end if only because Severus hadn't bothered explaining properly, and Regulus hadn't _known_ how to handle everything, and he had hated not knowing.

 

“I know what you mean,” Regulus found himself agreeing now, blinking back into the present.  “It can be taxing to enter a new world surrounded by people who already knows what is ‘normal’ to them, and expect you to know too.”

 

“Exactly,” Harry sighed, familiar enough with Regulus’ occasional lapses of attention to overlook this one without missing a beat.  “Ron’s like that too, and Hermione’s a Muggleborn but she’s read so many books that she can lecture _Ron_ about wizard customs, never mind me.”

 

Regulus’ brain instantly began tuning out the sudden turn into irrelevant territory.  He liked Harry but the kid’s friends were... Well, just thinking about them made Regulus shudder.  The Weasley boy’s table manners alone made Regulus want to stab himself with a fork, and the Granger girl just wouldn't _shut up_.  The first few times he had overheard her long diatribes about how he was a bad influence on Harry had been entertaining, and he had even enjoyed the way Harry had torn his friends a new one after the third time Granger and Weasley had confronted him about it.  However, after the sixth time, the tirades had gotten old, and Regulus had gotten annoyed to say the least.

 

‘Perhaps you should consider investing in different, more useful, and less bothersome friends’ was on the tip of Regulus’ tongue but he managed to swallow it down at the last second.  It wasn't any of Regulus’ business who Harry befriended.  He knew the kid still couldn't understand why – or how – Regulus had befriended Severus.

 

“So what brought you into the room in such a hurry anyway?”  Regulus changed the subject instead.

 

“Oh, right,” Harry seemed to have forgotten that he had had a purpose for coming into the room in the first place.  He leaned forward and patted the books he had brought in with him.  “I was just wondering if I could borrow some of these.  You know, for when I return to Hogwarts.”

 

Regulus tilted his head thoughtfully, running an analyzing eye over the titles before inclining his head.  “You may pick out more than three to take back with you, on the conditions that you check with me first before you pack them, and that you also charm the covers and the text so that they’ll only show regular schoolbooks.  I believe I’ve already showed you the incantations.”

 

Harry grinned at him.  “Yeah, I’ll do that.  Thanks, Reg.”

 

And then the kid’s good humour slipped away like water, replaced by a pensive frown, and Regulus was once again reminded of how bipolar teenagers could be.

 

“I take it there is something else?”  Regulus enquired patiently.

 

“Our booklists arrived,” Harry revealed abruptly.

 

“Did they?”  Regulus asked rhetorically.  He hadn't been keeping quite as close an eye on what was going on in the other parts of the house since no Order meetings had been held after Harry had arrived.

 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, making the strands stand on end.  “...Mum was a prefect, and both she and Dad were Head Girl and Boy.  ...Is it bad that I don’t particularly care that _I_ didn't get the prefect badge?”

 

Regulus raised an eyebrow.  “Why in the world would it be?  If you don’t want the extra responsibility of patrolling the corridors and threatening students with point deductions, then you don’t want it.  It’s your opinion, not your parents’, no matter what they were, and if either of them had an ounce of sense – which I can't promise for your father but at least your mother had enough for the both of them – then they wouldn't care either.  They’d still be proud of you whether or not you cared about having a shiny badge.  ...I take it Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley became prefects then?”

 

Harry shrugged.  “Yup.  Hermione came bursting into the kitchen, saw me holding Ron’s badge, and embarrassed everyone around when she mistook me for the one who had received it.  Ron was pleased to have gotten it though.  Mrs. Weasley bought him a new broom.”

 

“Hmm,” Regulus hummed noncommittally, again not caring either way how Harry’s friends had reacted.  “And when will you go out to buy your books?  What with this entire house being on lockdown and everything.”

 

“Mrs. Weasley already got them for all of us today,” Harry said, and Regulus stilled at once.  “She and Hermione got into a minor argument over a Galleon because Hermione didn't want change and Mrs. Weasley didn't want charity.  Uh, my words, not hers.  ...Reg?  Is something wrong?”

 

“And you gave Mrs. Weasley the money to buy those books?”  Regulus’ gaze remained solely focused on Harry, who looked a bit unnerved by the intensity but didn't look away.

 

“Um, no,” Harry confessed, looking puzzled.  “Bill went with her, and they stopped by the bank to withdraw some money from my vault-”

 

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ”  Regulus hissed, and then reeled in the rising explosive temper that all Blacks had no matter how well they hid it when Harry flinched a little at his venomous tone.

 

“What’s the matter?”  Harry looked honestly confused.

 

Regulus’ lips thinned.  “Harry, did you give your vault key to either of them?”

 

Harry blinked.  “...No.”

 

“Then how exactly did they get in, you foolish boy?”  Regulus snapped, suppressing the twist of guilt in his gut when a flicker of hurt flitted across Harry’s face.  “I understand that Bill Weasley works in Gringotts but he has no authority to access another’s vault simply because he has a job with them, and his mother certain doesn't either.”

 

Harry shifted uncomfortably.  “I... don’t know, maybe Dumbledore gave them a key?  He gave Hagrid my key back before my first year, and Hagrid gave it to me when he took me to Gringotts.”

 

Regulus closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “There are so many things wrong with that statement that we’ll be here until dawn before we finish discussing them so I suppose I’ll just focus on the most important bit for now.  Harry, _why_ does Dumbledore still have _your_ key?  To _your_ vault?  That contains _your_ money?  He is not your guardian, he is your Headmaster; the only one who should have a key to your trust vault is you.”

 

For the first time, something like horrified understanding dawned on Harry’s paling features.  “I don’t-”

 

Regulus closed his eyes again, propping his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together before resting his forehead against them.  For several long seconds, his mind clicked away objectively, coming up with theories and discarding the more unlikely possibilities.

 

And then he opened his eyes and stood up in one fluid motion.  Harry was watching him anxiously.

 

“Do you want to find out what is going on?”  Regulus asked coolly.

 

Harry straightened.  His eyes flashed.  “Yes.”

 

Regulus nodded, having expected nothing less.  “The night is still young so we will have several hours before anyone wakes.  I will take you to Gringotts to sort this out.  ...You are a troublesome boy, you know that?”

 

Harry scratched his head and offered an uncharacteristically sardonic smile.  “In a good way at least?”

 

Regulus just sighed before turning to summon Kreacher to go and – discreetly – retrieve Harry’s cloak from his room.  “Perhaps.  Still, I suggest you consider yourself lucky that I like you, Harry Potter.”

 

                And despite the situation, Harry’s face lit up with a grin.

 

**Please leave a review on your way out.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reread the first two chapters, and then I literally wrote this up from the first word to the last in fourteen hours over the past two days.

**XVII.**

                “And you are?” The goblin peered up at Reg. Before Harry could scramble for a fake name, the older wizard had already cut in smoothly.

 

                “Castor Grey,” Reg replied with the ease of someone who was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I own a private law firm, and I've been hired to act in the capacity of Mr. Potter’s lawyer.”

 

                Harry tried to look like this wasn't news to him when the goblin glanced sharply between the two.

 

                “Follow me,” The goblin grunted at last, and led them further into Gringotts.

 

                “You're a lawyer now?” Harry whispered under his breath.

 

                “Hush,” Reg murmured back, though he sounded amused. “Lawyer’s always the best cover in a bank.”

 

                Harry rolled his eyes, and then muttered, “Why Castor Grey?”

 

                “It’s relatively close to my own name, not to mention I’ve used the alias before, looking exactly like this,” Reg revealed mildly once the goblin had instructed them to wait before disappearing through a door on the left. “And I actually have a bank account here under that name, one I haven’t used in a good long while.”

 

                Harry flicked a glance up and down the older wizard. Reg actually didn't look all that different save for the fact that he had changed his hair colour to a dark crimson. The man had opted to keep his eyes grey, though they seemed darker when matched with vivid red hair instead of his original raven black. One could never mistake him for a Weasley however; the hair was darker than the Weasley red, and there was just something far too refined about Reg – even in disguise – for anyone to put the man into the same category as people like Ron with his foot-in-mouth habit or Ginny with her – previous – constant stammering and blushing and – current – brasher personality.

 

                “Mr. Potter,” An older-looking – and most likely higher-ranking judging by the first goblin’s respectful bow before he took his leave – goblin stepped out of the door, eyeing both Harry and Reg with shrewd eyes. “And... Mr. Grey. Come this way. I am Steelclaw. I understand you wished to discuss some monetary issues regarding your vaults, Mr. Potter?”

 

                Goblins were never ones for wasting time. Unfortunately, Harry wasn't exactly one hundred percent clear on what he was doing here in the first place beyond _I just realized half an hour ago that people I thought I could trust might or might not have been stealing from me for years now_.

 

                “Er, yes,” Harry fumbled out as they sat down, casting an anxious eye at Reg who nodded back with encouragement. He straightened and took a steadying breath, stomping down hard on the nervousness that almost always came whenever Harry encountered something new in the Wizarding World. It didn't help that Steelclaw was currently staring at him with thinly veiled impatience.

 

                “Earlier today,” Harry started again. “A withdrawal was made from my trust vault, probably by either Mrs- I mean, Molly Weasley, or Bill Weasley. I was wondering how they managed to get in. Did they have a key?”

 

                Steelclaw arched an eyebrow but said nothing as he rifled through a few documents piled on the desk between them. “Ah yes, a withdrawal _was_ made at four-sixteen this afternoon from Vault 687. Molly Weasley was granted access since she was the one who had produced the key. William Weasley was not present as far as the records say. At the very least, he did not accompany his mother down to your vault.” A sharp glint of suspicion entered Steelclaw’s eyes when he turned back to Harry. “Judging by your enquiry, might I assume that you did not give her your key?”

 

                Harry nodded numbly, the first poisonous barbs of betrayal seeping into his gut even as he dug into one pocket and pulled out his own key. Why would Mrs. Weasley-? “I have my key here. Whatever key she used, it wasn't mine. Or at least I didn't give it to her. I- didn't even know any other keys for my vault existed.”

 

                Steelclaw’s eyes narrowed, and when he held out one long-fingered hand, palm up, Harry passed his key over to the goblin.

 

                “This is indeed your trust vault key,” Steelclaw’s voice came out in a growl this time, and Harry instinctively stiffened. “...But I have no record of any orders being put in for one since you entered Hogwarts so this must be an old one. Your parents are dead-” Harry flinched minutely at the bluntness. “-so your magical guardian must have given this to you, correct?”

 

                Harry blinked, automatically glancing at Reg for clarification. “Uh, ‘magical guardian’?”

 

                “That would be Headmaster Dumbledore since your next of kin are Muggles and an internationally wanted criminal,” Reg expounded coolly. “Both of whom are unacceptable, so since your name would no doubt have been down on the Hogwarts student registry since birth what with who your parents were, the Hogwarts Headmaster would be... allowed to take up that responsibility.”

 

                He paused for a beat. “But as I told you earlier, Dumbledore is still only your headmaster. ‘Magical guardian’ is a misleading term; it does not mean he is _your guardian_ in the sense that Sirius Black would be if not for his status as a convict. Essentially, Dumbledore should only have the power to manage your money with your best interests in mind. He does not have the power to – for example – withdraw money for his own personal use or have direct access to your _family_ vaults, nor is he allowed to make copies of your key and hand them out to whomever he pleases. At least, not without consulting you, and gaining your permission first.”

 

                “Headmaster Dumbledore should not have the power to do anything with your money at this point in time,” Steelclaw cut in scathingly while Harry’s head still reeled from the onslaught of information. “Mr. Potter was declared an adult last year on the thirty-first of October. Therefore, all keys should have been returned to Mr. Potter’s ownership, and any of his keys in anyone else’s possession should have been given to them by Mr. Potter alone.”

 

                “... _What?_ ” Harry said faintly.

 

                “ _I beg your pardon?_ ” Reg said, sounding infinitely more dangerous.

 

                When Harry swiveled around again to look at his godfather’s brother, he couldn't help wincing at the glacial what-the-bloody-hell-have-you-not-told-me expression staring back at him from behind impassive grey eyes.

 

                Problem was, Harry wasn't sure what was going on either. October thirty-first... that was when he had been chosen to participate in the Triwizard Tournament-

 

                “When you were chosen to participate in the Triwizard Tournament, Mr. Potter,” Steelclaw interjected over clasped hands, and Reg was suddenly very still in his seat. “Willingly or not, the fact that you were not withdrawn meant that both your magical guardian and the Ministry of Magic acknowledged you as an emancipated minor. From that day onwards, you have been an adult in the eyes of the law.”

 

                Harry just sat and stared. He was an adult?! Why hadn't Dumbledore told him? What was he supposed to do now?

 

                “Begging your pardon, Steelclaw,” Reg spoke up in the ensuing silence. “I’d like to have a private word with Mr. Potter. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes.”

 

                Steelclaw looked mildly annoyed by this delay but didn't seem quite as irritated as he could've been under any other circumstances. With a curt nod, the goblin rose to his feet and stalked out of the room, door thunking shut behind him.

 

                “Now then,” Reg began with a pleasant smile that didn't reassure Harry in the slightest. Almost distractedly, the wizard pulled out his wand and cast a few non-verbal privacy spells around them. “What’s this about the Triwizard Tournament, Harry?”

 

                With a grimace, Harry realized that he had told Reg about the graveyard and the ritual and Cedric and even how Barty Crouch Jr. in the guise of Mad-Eye Moody had been the one who had orchestrated the entire trap, but he hadn't exactly told the man _how_ he had gotten there or any of the events that had led up to the resurrection of Voldemort. And he’d forgotten that Reg had been in a coma and that there had to be some things that Kreacher wouldn't have known to inform the man about once he had woken up.

 

                “The Triwizard Tournament was held at Hogwarts last year between my school, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang,” Harry explained, and hurriedly, he launched into a summary of the events that had taken place throughout his fourth year. By the time had finished, Reg was shaking his head.

 

                “Well, at least your life isn’t boring,” The current redhead remarked dryly. “If I had known, I would've dragged you to Gringotts earlier. This brings up quite a few points, such as your mother’s wards – they shouldn't even be active anymore. Also, you should be able to perform magic outside of school, so either you can, or someone’s tagged your wand with something akin to the Trace. The Trace is a powerful automatic tracking charm that detects magic done around underage wizards,” Reg added when Harry opened his mouth. “All wands bought at most wand shops have them; it’s standard Ministry procedure.”

 

                Harry nodded, leaning back in his chair and feeling exhausted. “So... now what? Apparently, I'm an adult, Dumbledore’s doing I-don’t-know-what with my vaults, and Mrs. Weasley might or might not be in league with him. That sounds like something straight out of a movie even to myself.”

 

                Reg snorted, getting to his feet and heading for the door to call Steelclaw back in. “First things first – we get you a new key so that the other ones floating around out there will be useless. Then we go from there.”

 

                Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed. How he was going to even look Dumbledore in the eye ever again without feeling like he wanted to punch the man in the nose, he didn't know.

 

 

  **XVIII.**

                Two hours later saw Harry taking his leave from Gringotts, Reg at his side, a ring on his finger, a new key in one pocket, and a wallet connected directly to his family vaults and keyed to his magical signature in his other.

 

                It hadn't been difficult for Steelclaw to produce a new key, and while he was at it, Reg had also suggested moving the contents of his trust vault back to his family vaults for even better security, which Harry had agreed to.

 

                Harry would've agreed to anything in the name of security at this point.

 

                Because.

 

                Because Dumbledore had been stealing from him.

 

                Oh, not _that_ much, in the greater scheme of things since the old man couldn't get his fingers into Harry’s family vaults directly, but the trust vault refilled itself each year up until Harry physically turned seventeen since that was how his parents had set it up, or until Harry himself merged it back with the rest of his gold, which he was now allowed to do since he was technically of age via the Triwizard Tournament. Since Harry only withdrew money at the beginning of each year – sometimes not even, this year case in point – he would have no idea if someone else with his key withdrew anything unless he came and asked to see the records.

 

                And while Dumbledore hadn't removed anything too significant each year if Harry placed the total sum of his family vaults under consideration, it was still stealing, and what was worse, he had no idea what the Headmaster was using the money for. That alone put Dumbledore on Harry’s shit list, and it was only after Reg had told him to take deep breaths and focus on his Occlumency shields that he hadn't lost his temper right then and there.

 

                At the very least, it didn't look like Mrs. Weasley – or anyone else – had taken anything, at least not personally anyway. That didn't change the fact that she had _his_ – now useless but still his – key, as did who knew how many others, and _he_ _hadn't been the one to give it to them_.

 

                But then, Harry knew how personable and convincing Dumbledore could be. And it wasn't as if Harry had kicked up a fuss about it when Mrs. Weasley had gone to buy his books for him. It wasn't as if she was going to use her own gold to foot his school supplies, especially when her family was tight on money already.

 

                Harry really should've realized that for himself.

 

                After the meeting, Steelclaw had offered to take Harry down to his vaults just to have a look around, something that Reg had bowed out of, instead requesting to take a look at Harry’s wand in the meantime just to check for tracking charms. Harry had readily given it up, only for his mentor to smack him over the head for parting from his weapon so easily. And then the man had pressed his own wand into Harry’s hand, citing that it wouldn't work quite as well but it would do for an emergency. Steelclaw had watched all this with an air of disgruntled exasperation, and Harry had heard the goblin grumbling under his breath about paranoid wand-carriers as they’d departed for the cart.

 

                Harry’s family vaults had been nothing to scoff at. He had a chain of five vaults, all of them filled with gold or magical artefacts. It was absurd how rich he was. His combined wealth made his trust vault look like spare change. When asked, Steelclaw had told him loftily that the Potters were ranked right up there with the Blacks, and above the Malfoys, something which Harry had taken quite a bit of vindictive glee from upon hearing this.

 

                Following the tour, Harry had returned to his mentor, only to find-

 

                “Your wand, Mr. Potter,” Reg drawled as he extended Harry’s wand. “Trace-free.”

 

                Harry accepted it with grateful hands, blurting out his thanks even as he passed Reg’s wand back to its owner.

 

                “There _was_ a tracking charm then?” Harry enquired as he sat down next to the former Black heir again.

 

                “Yes, but not just the standard one,” A frown creased Reg’s brow. “There was an extra component added to the charm that would alert the Ministry – whoever cast it would've been able to find you anywhere whenever you used your wand, not just when there’s a case of underage magic.” He cocked his head. “It’s fortunate that you haven’t cast any magic during our study sessions.”

 

                “But who would do something like this?” Harry burst out, but even as he did, the image of a bearded old man popped up in his head.

 

                Reg offered him a thin smile. “You have a good idea already; you don’t need me to spell it out for you. Still, it is only a guess. I would advise against accusing the Headmaster of anything right now. This is a card you should only play when you can make the biggest impact and reap the highest amount of benefits.”

 

                Harry nodded mutely. He could see the sense in that. Dumbledore’s name might be mud in their society at the moment but the man himself still had numerous supporters and experience while Harry... not so much.

 

                “He’ll know that the Trace is gone though, once I do magic in class and nothing pings on his radar,” Harry brought up with a grimace.

 

                Reg tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “True. ...Well, I suppose you should just blame it on the Dark Lord.”

 

                Harry blinked. “What? How?”

 

                Reg arched an eyebrow. Harry huffed and racked his brain.

 

Why would Dumbledore believe the lack of the Trace on his wand would be because of Voldemort? Sure, they had duelled (again) at the end of his fourth year, and their wands were brother wands...

 

“Oh!” Harry perked up. “I could just blame it on all the heavy spellwork that was going on at the graveyard last year, and that Priori Incantatem thing! Even Dumbledore couldn't tell me much about that connection, and if he asks, I could just tell him I have no idea how it happened. I haven’t used any magic since June.”

 

“Yes,” Reg agreed with a lazy smirk. “And if he doesn't back off, you can also innocently ask him how he knows that the Trace isn’t tagged to your wand anymore. Phrase it correctly and he’ll be guaranteed to leave you alone about it.”

 

“I swear that’s some form of blackmail,” Harry muttered.

 

“It’s called a veiled threat, Harry,” Reg told him airily. “Or subtle intimidation. Of course, your esteemed Headmaster won’t see it that way if you maintain your naive schoolboy Gryffindor facade.”

 

“But I won’t be slacking in my studies anymore,” Harry said stoutly.

 

Reg scoffed, leaning forward and picking up a scroll. “I should hope not; I would be rather disappointed if you received anything below an E in your upcoming OWLs.”

 

Harry unconsciously straightened in his seat. Nothing below an E; good thing he was aiming for all Os then. Harry had asked once before, and Reg had admitted to achieving straight Os in both his OWLs and NEWTs. So come hell or high water, Harry would bring home as many Outstanding OWLs as he possibly could.

 

He lingered on that resolution, and then side-eyed Reg who was currently studying the scroll, all elegant poise and regal air of a king even when executing so simple an action.

 

It was incredibly strange, Harry mused with a sudden, almost terrifying clarity, that someone like this, someone so unlike all the people he had regularly interacted with up until now, someone like Reg who was an ex-Death Eater and a Slytherin and the complete opposite of the quintessential Gryffindor, had somehow become ‘home’ to him.

 

“Is something the matter?”

 

Harry blinked back into the present, and hastily shook his head when he found that Reg had caught him staring. Reg looked more than a little skeptical but the man dropped the issue without further comment, handing him the scroll instead.

 

“The Potter properties,” Reg explained as Harry scanned the frankly ridiculously long list. “More specifically, _your_ properties since you are now the Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter.”

 

“...These are all mine?” Harry gaped, stunned. “But... there are five estates in Britain alone, and more all across Europe! I have a _chateau_ in _France_!”

 

“No, you have two chateaus in France, an art gallery, and a chain of restaurants that your family owns,” Reg corrected, amusement flickering at the corners of his mouth as he handed Harry another scroll. “Of course, I believe quite a few of them have had to close what with no Lord Potter to handle employment contracts and outsourcing for the past two decades or so, not to mention keeping an eye on the profit margin and the investments in... I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

 

Harry nodded numbly, the first stirrings of panic twisting his gut. “I- Reg, I don’t know _any_ of this stuff. What am I supposed to- I don’t know _how_ to handle any of this.”

 

“Understandable,” Reg observed him for a second longer before tipping a faint smile at him. “I will teach you. I was raised to take over all the businesses and investments that the Blacks have their fingers in, you know. Being a Lord isn’t just about strutting around and flaunting your wealth and power. It takes meticulous care and effort to _preserve_ that wealth and power, and while there is such a thing as delegating, it is the Lord of the House who is responsible for the majority of the work.”

 

“I never knew,” Harry mumbled, still trying to wrap his mind around all the businesses that the Potters apparently had a share in. Even the Daily Prophet was on here, though only a sixth of it was his, and with the way things had gone with that newspaper so far, it was increasingly tempting to simply jump ship and cut all ties with the Daily Prophet.

 

A pale hand gently plucked the scrolls from his clutches. “For now, how about you focus on digesting what you've learned, and you can come back to these later?” Reg suggested with something that was almost sympathy.

 

Harry groaned and leaned back in his chair. “Looking at people like Mr. Malfoy, you’d never guess that they would ever have to lift a finger in their entire lives. And you can’t possibly convince me that Malfoy – Draco – knows this stuff back to front?”

 

“Well, he still has both his parents,” Reg’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “And the Malfoys have been financially, politically, and socially secure for years; they have no reason to rush his education. Draco is your age, yes? He would be learning the ins and outs of the Malfoy businesses right now, but he wouldn't know everything, and he certainly wouldn't know how to maintain his family’s assets wisely, especially if he’s as spoiled as you say he is. And in the event that someone does off Lucius, Narcissa would be regent until either Draco is ready or the boy insists on seizing full power when he reaches his majority.”

 

“Three guesses as to what he would choose,” Harry groused, only to be rapped on the head with Reg’s knuckles.

 

“He could be a good ally,” Reg reminded him by way of admonishment.

 

Harry made a face. “He’s _Malfoy_!”

 

Reg sighed. “You don’t need to like him to benefit from him. The Blacks were once one of the most powerful families in all of Europe but trust me when I say that we were not well liked. Still, there were smaller family lines that struck alliances with us so that they would come under our protection, and in turn, they prospered because of it.” He tilted his head, and something darker, a ruthless sort of amusement that reminded Harry of the background that Reg had been raised with, flashed through his eyes. “Well, not all the time. Those who couldn’t hold up their side of any deal with us paid for it tenfold.”

 

Harry examined his mentor for a long moment, watching as Reg slanted a borderline uneasy glance over at him before those dark corners were carefully tucked out of sight again, as if the former Black heir was ashamed of that part of himself, or maybe ashamed that it was there at all for Harry to see.

 

 _It’s okay,_ Harry wanted to say. _It’s okay if a part of you is like that. You don’t have to hide it. I won’t judge._

 

He didn't necessarily agree with all of Reg’s views, but the man didn't scare him or disgust him either whenever his crueller character traits reared their heads. This was _Reg_ , who had accepted Harry like Harry had once wished Sirius – _anyone_ – would, teaching him and encouraging him and giving him a hand when he needed it no matter how exasperated he got with Harry’s Gryffindor tendencies or unknowing naivety or all the holes in his magical education.

 

“Steelclaw should be coming back with your family ring,” Reg carried on before Harry could phrase his thoughts into something less sentimental that wouldn’t mortify them both.

 

“Oh,” Harry cleared his throat. “Er, family ring?”

 

Reg inclined his head. “A mark of your station, and some of the wards around your estates, like the Potter Manor, would require the ring to bypass. It can’t be worn by anyone other than the family head either. The family magicks engraved on the ring in runic form would prevent it.”

 

“It probably wouldn't be a good idea for everyone to know though,” Harry frowned, trying to remember if Mr. Malfoy went around with a ring. He did, didn’t he? In fact, more than one.

 

“Nobody with any sense would wear something so important for the whole world to see,” Reg interjected as if reading Harry’s mind. “Not even my own father or Lucius would. Who knows what could happen? No, the ring stays invisible on your hand unless you will it otherwise. Most lords only wear them openly when attending important ceremonies or Wizengamot sessions.”

 

That was good then. Harry was still uncertain over whether or not he should tell Ron and Hermione all of this, though he was mostly leaning towards not. It wasn't that he didn't trust them... well okay, that was a lie. With the way things had been going between them lately, he couldn't trust that word wouldn't reach Dumbledore or one of the Order members, especially if one of them – Hermione mostly – was convinced that he needed adult guidance in these matters. He didn't want to chance revealing his newly discovered heritage to Ron either; the redhead was already jealous enough of his fame and _trust vault_. Who knew what would happen if the other boy got wind of Harry’s overall wealth?

 

He heaved a sigh and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. How could anyone’s life change so much so frequently?

 

“Hey, Reg?” Harry sat up when a thought hit him. “You know how you said I could delegate some matters? And you also said that a regent could be appointed, right? Or, well, you didn't say that, but you said Mrs. Malfoy would be regent if Mr. Malfoy died and Mal- Draco wasn’t ready.”

 

Reg raised his eyebrows in silent enquiry, though knowing him, Harry was fairly certain that the former Black heir had already connected the dots.

 

“So could _you_ be my regent?” Harry asked hopefully. “If I delegated things to you? I could just- I don’t know, appoint you as my regent, right? Just until I learned all this stuff?”

 

Reg was silent again, a weight behind his silver gaze that made Harry want to fidget.

 

“If I was even halfway like my old self,” The man remarked at last, voice chillingly calm, and this time, it was Regulus Black speaking, the man who would've been named the Head of one of the Darkest and most powerful families in all of Europe if he hadn't almost died. “I would _ruin_ you, Harry.”

 

Harry could only frown in consternation. Reg sighed, and the Pureblood persona stepped back into the shadows.

 

“I’ve told you again and again – you're too trusting, kid,” Reg shook his head ruefully. “I would call you insane if I didn't know how little understanding you have in these matters. Yes, you can appoint a regent; that is your right as the family head, and a contract would be drawn up that would state how long you would hand over all authority to the regent, but you should never, ever put so much power in the hands of a non-family member. Or even a family member you don’t explicitly trust. I’m a Black, Harry. If you had offered the same to my father, there wouldn't even _be_ a Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter anymore; he would've agreed, and then he would've had the freedom to merge the Potters under the Blacks, and you wouldn’t have a single say in the matter.”

 

“Well then it’s a good thing I would never offer your dad the position of regent,” Harry scowled and crossed his arms. “I’m not stupid, Reg. I know you're a Black. I offered because you would actually know what you were doing, and I trust you not to do anything that isn’t in my best interests when it comes to this.”

 

Reg’s eyes were like twin frozen lakes on a bleak winter day. “Then you’d be a fool, Harry Potter.”

 

Harry stubbornly jutted out his chin. “I know what I’m doing. You wouldn’t stab me in the back.”

 

“Wouldn’t I?” A sarcastic sneer curled at Reg’s lips. For all that it matched his aristocratic appearance perfectly, it still didn’t seem to fit his face. “You have known me for less than two months. Who says I won’t betray you in the end, especially if the Dark Lord comes a-knocking? You, for my life?”

 

Harry snorted, and all at once, the tension leaked out of his body because that was _easy_. “You turned on Voldemort sixteen years ago when there was absolutely _nothing_ in it for you. If things had gone according to your plan, no one would've ever known you had betrayed him. You would've died with everyone believing you to be a coward, or at least a Death Eater, and you were _okay with that_. But-” Harry squared his shoulders. “But you have me now. I know the truth. And-” He smiled a bit, stamping down on his embarrassment. “And you said so yourself – you like me. I'm your favourite godnephew. You'd never let me down like that.”

 

Reg’s features were very still; they might as well have been chiseled from marble. But his eyes came alive again, a glimmer of light warming them once more, and it was a relief because as reserved as Reg could be, _this_ was the man Harry was used to, not the other one who hid behind unfeeling eyes and the frigid scorn and derisive superiority of a Black-moulded Pureblood.

 

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” Reg reprimanded mildly but there was no real reproach behind the words. His statuesque mask cracked, and the academic genius who enjoyed good banter and red wine and had an old house-elf for a best friend slid to the forefront again. “You aren’t my favourite anything, but since dear old Siri has his head so far up his arse that he’s forgotten all his responsibilities, someone has to pick up the slack.”

 

Harry laughed. Honestly, who did Reg think he was kidding?

 

“So you’ll be my regent?” He persisted.

 

Reg’s expression softened but the man shook his head. “No, I won’t. Listen to me, Harry, that sort of thing, even if you trusted me completely, if word got out, you’d be seen as weak. ‘Can’t even control your own House’, they’ll think, ‘Having to resort to letting someone outside the family to keep you afloat’. It’s suicide in the eyes of the other Noble Houses, and unofficially, your standing would drop, you’d lose respect, and you can’t afford that, especially not right now with you being the last Potter. They’ll be circling you like sharks for the rest of your life, and I won’t do that to you. Even if I’m a dead Black, families like Malfoy and Lestrange and Nott will remember that I was once the Black heir, and Sirius is only the head of the family now due to circumstance. He didn't earn it, he’s not suitable, and no one in the Pureblood circle would respect him even once his name is cleared. They would think the same of you if I took control and repaired some of the damage that stagnancy has created before handing it all back to you.”

 

Reg paused, surveying Harry with the air of someone reading an open book. “If you don’t understand what I'm saying now, you will one day, and you’ll thank me for it. The Potter dealings have held up for this long gathering dust; they’ll hold up for a while longer. I’ll teach you everything you need to know but I won’t play regent for you.”

 

Harry glanced down at his hands. Reg was right in that he didn't fully understand why Reg being his regent was _that_ bad a thing. After all, did it really matter that much if people like Mr. Malfoy looked down on him for trusting a friend with his assets and gold? It wasn't as if Harry cared what they thought.

 

Still...

 

“See?” Harry said brightly just as the door swung open to admit Steelclaw. “You're looking out for my family reputation already.”

 

Reg sighed in defeat and threw a spare quill at him. Harry caught it and grinned.

 

 

**XVIX.**

                Regulus inwardly grimaced at the ache between his shoulder blades. He was getting old, and Merlin, that was a thought his inner eighteen-year-old would like to rebel against. Then again, he _had_ just spent several hours poring over Harry’s newly found worldly goods, and giving the boy an overview over everything he didn't understand.

 

                Which was a hell of a lot. Regulus didn't know what Dumbledore was thinking keeping the kid’s heritage from him. How did the old man think Harry would survive in the political world once the Dark Lord was gone for good? Without even the most basic knowledge of the Potters’ influence in the Wizarding world, Harry would be blindsided when he had to take up his duties. That, or the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter would fade into obscurity, its power base lost forever. Of course, none of that mattered if Voldemort killed him first.

 

                Regulus glanced surreptitiously at the kid beside him, focusing briefly on the lightning bolt scar.

 

                Could it be...?

 

                He faced forward again. It didn’t matter, either way, because – as much as Regulus hated to admit – Harry had hit the nail on the head. The kid _was_ important to him now.

 

                Regulus didn't have a lot of things that were important to him. There was Kreacher, of course, and Sirius, no matter how much bad blood lay between them. He could even go so far as to say he wouldn't want anything to happen to Severus either despite the fact that they had drifted apart after Severus had graduated. Cissa and Andy – no matter how much he had liked them – didn’t really count anymore. So of those three ties, only the first actually gave a damn about him. Even believing Regulus to be dead, Sirius _still_ hated him.

 

                But there was Harry now. So Gryffindorishly naive that it sometimes made Regulus want to yank his hair out, and yet the boy had the annoying tendency to see right through Regulus when it came to more... emotional matters. For someone who had been mistreated by his relatives for most of his life, Harry genuinely seemed to trust him, which was... mind-boggling.

 

                Nobody _trusted_ Regulus, not really. Sirius hadn't trusted him since he’d fallen in with Potter (though to be fair, Regulus hadn't trust his brother either since the first time Potter had strung him up to the ceiling by his ankles and Sirius had only laughed). Severus had been a good friend for several years before the war had torn them apart as well.

 

                But Harry trusted him, trusted him with his _family assets_ , for Merlin’s sake, and only after a month and a half of knowing each other. Who _did_ that? Who could be that ludicrously gullible?

 

                Regulus wasn't a good man; he knew that better than anyone. He had blood on his hands that he would never be able to wash off, and even now, even though he wouldn't go out of his way to do it, it wouldn't bother him either if he had to kill a few Muggles in self-defense or to accomplish his goals.

 

                He wondered if Harry understood that. Sure, the boy knew of his distaste for Muggles in general, knew he had been a Death Eater once upon a time, knew he had once been the epitome of a prince befitting the Black House, but did he understand to what extent? Was that why Harry found it so easy to trust him? Because he hadn't yet seen just how Dark Regulus could still be despite having betrayed the Dark Lord?

 

                The kid was lucky then. If Regulus had even a fraction less of decency, he wouldn't have turned down all that power – every single last bit of the Potter estates and investments literally handed over to him on a golden platter, and Regulus had refused. Walburga Black must be rolling in her grave.

 

                And what the hell the idiot boy was thinking just _offering_ all of that influence over to a _Black_ , Regulus didn’t know.

 

                Then again, he supposed Harry wouldn’t know much about this either, if at all. He doubted Sirius had waxed poetic about some of the downsides of the Black line, like how their family magicks – no matter how Light the castor proclaimed themselves to be – would always be Dark-inclined, or the madness that dogged their family’s footsteps and eventually closed its jaws around every last one of them sooner or later, or even that hunger for power that manifested in all of them in some way or another. After all, most of the Blacks had been swayed towards Voldemort’s cause despite the fact that the madman had no qualms killing Purebloods as easily as he would Muggleborns, but he was strong, arguably stronger than Dumbledore, and he preached blood purity – that was all that mattered.

 

                Sirius hadn't been entirely exempt either. He had leeched onto James Potter like a sloth to a tree, and he’d never looked back. The Sirius that Regulus had known before his brother had hopped off to Hogwarts would never have allowed anyone to shoot so much as a stray spell at Regulus without retaliation, much less be one of the participants.

 

                Harry wouldn't know any of this though, and even just thinking about all the information that the boy should've started learning years ago, information that Regulus would now have to teach him as quickly as possible, gave him a migraine.

 

                Nevertheless, Harry was depending on him, had faith in him in a way that nobody else had ever had, and Regulus couldn't help but want to live up to the kid’s expectations.

 

Sixteen years ago, he had walked into that Inferi-infested cave prepared to die, and that had been for himself, to prove that he could still draw the line and say enough was enough.

 

Now he had a fifteen-year-old teenager on his hands, a boy in over his head in this war, a target on his head courtesy of the Dark Lord, malicious defamation aimed at him courtesy of the Ministry, and a meddling old man attempting to manipulate him courtesy of the Hogwarts Headmaster.

 

Harry was a good kid through and through in spite of all the shite life had thrown at him, a better person than Regulus any day of the week, and he’d somehow wormed his way behind Regulus’ defenses, and then refused to leave. So, if Regulus was willing enough to die for himself, then he could certainly do the same for Harry Potter.

 

The boy in question was a bit pale at the moment, drawn in a way that Regulus hadn't seen since the beginning of their acquaintance. Not surprising; tonight _had_ shaken the kid’s worldviews up a little.

 

“Would you like to go somewhere?” Regulus asked abruptly, affecting an indifferent air when he felt Harry’s eyes flick up to peer inquisitively at him. He gestured at the dark-before-dawn sky. “We still have approximately an hour before sunrise; I could Apparate us somewhere if you feel you want to spare a moment to clear your head instead of heading straight back.” He looked out down the street, studiously avoiding Harry’s startled gaze. “My cumulative knowledge of the Muggle world isn’t much even compared to Sirius but I can manage destinations, and I doubt those relatives of yours took you to very many places when you were a child, so where would you like to go? Big Ben? Westminster Abbey? Tintagel? That will take me a few jumps though. Are you even interested in that sort of thing? You _are_ fifteen right now. But most shops are closed at this time, and it would be unwise of me to sneak you out during daytime so you’ll have to settle for the sights and a Lumos if you want to see anything right now.”

 

A long silence ensued. Regulus frowned at the horizon in the distance. Perhaps he shouldn't have brought the Muggles up; Merlin knew he didn't like being reminded of the majority of his blood family either.

 

“...Could we go see the ocean?”

 

Regulus glanced down. Bright green eyes stared back at him eagerly.

 

“I’ve never seen it,” Harry clarified, a wistful look darting across his features. “I’d like to, if we could? And a beach would be nice.”

 

Regulus quirked a bemused smile even as he clasped a hand around Harry’s forearm. “It can be done. You want for little, Harry.”

 

And then he turned on his heel and jumped, focusing on one of the private beaches owned by the Black family. The wards didn’t stop either of them – Regulus had Black blood, and Harry was his tagalong.

 

They landed ankle-deep in the sand, and Regulus was thankful that he was wearing boots. At the height of August, the night air was cool against their skin. Harry, wearing summer robes and a simple shirt and jeans underneath, didn't seem affected at all. Even Regulus, excluding the constant chill in his bones nowadays, only adjusted his scarf instead of casting another warming charm on himself.

 

“Wow!” Harry breathed, lurching forward, and Regulus glanced up, following his brother’s godson’s line of sight.

 

Well, he supposed it was a rather awe-inspiring sight. The ocean sprawled out in front of them, dark and deep and ancient, deadly in its vast beauty, and the near-black white-crested tides broke against the shore in even intervals before pulling out again. The whoosh of lapping water filled their ears, along with the lazy rumble of the more distant yet significantly more formidable waves, and as Regulus gazed out at the deceptively tempered sea that seemed to extend onwards forever, it was easy to feel very, very small.

 

Regulus had no desire to break the silence with the jarring noise of human words, and Harry seemed equally content to simply wander the beach, staring out across the ocean as the wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his clothes. Regulus found a nearby log and sat down, taking out his wand and lighting the tip as he kept one eye on his temporary charge and another on the skyline.

 

It was peaceful here. Regulus didn't like water much, not after the cave, but he was out in open space with nothing but the star-studded sky above him and soft sand beneath, and the sound of the waves was soothing. Things like the Dark Lord and Horcruxes and wars and idiot older brothers didn't seem to matter as much in the face of something that had been here long before any of them had existed, and would still be here long after they were all gone.

 

It was with a great amount of reluctance that – thirty minutes later – Regulus rose to his feet and meandered down to where Harry was lying on his back on the sand, close enough to the ocean that the swell of waves splashed his shoes every time they rushed in, and utterly fearless despite the potential threat of being dragged into the water with the tow of the tide.

 

“Harry, time to go,” Regulus murmured quietly.

 

Harry made a disappointed noise, barely audible over the muted roar of the sea, but the boy sat up and clambered to his feet without complaint, stretching languidly even as Regulus waved his wand at him to dry his clothes.

 

“I like it here,” Harry confessed. “Do you think we could come back sometime?”

 

“Perhaps,” Regulus allowed. “I’ll at least bring you here again before you return to school.” He glanced behind him at the beach house sitting on the terrace. Did Sirius know about this place? Well, even if he did, he certainly wouldn't be vacationing here anytime soon.

 

“I could have this place cleaned up, and give you access, at least until one of your own beach houses is in liveable conditions again,” Regulus held out a hand, preparing to Apparate them away. “Perhaps, if you can get away, I can bring you here over the Yule holidays.”

 

Harry looked surprised and delighted in equal measure. “Well,” The kid smiled wryly. “It’s not like I have any relatives worth visiting.”

 

Regulus smirked back, equally sardonic. Those Dursley Muggles might contract heart failure if Harry showed up on their doorstep for the holidays. What a shame.

 

 

**XX.**

                “Harry, you _have_ to stop secluding yourself.”

 

                Harry didn't bother looking up from the text he was studying. “I really don’t because I'm not. Can I help you, Hermione?”

 

                An agitated huff was his answer, followed by, “I told you, Harry, you've been acting strangely. We’re just worried.”

 

                “Mm-hm,” Harry hummed absently as he reviewed the fire runes. He was serious about transferring to Arithmancy and Ancient Runes (after some contemplation, he had decided that while he regretted disappointing Hagrid, he couldn’t stay in Care when he couldn't see himself needing it in the future, and he was only sabotaging himself if he continued taking that course just to make Hagrid happy), so Regulus had drawn up a study schedule for him accordingly, compacting all the fourth-year material as much as possible so that Harry just might have a chance of convincing McGonagall come September to _let_ him transfer. It was lucky that he was a natural at Arithmancy; it meant that he didn't need to spend all that much time on that subject, but no matter how good he was at Ancient Runes as well, that area of study still required a lot more of his attention.

 

                Out of the blue, a hand shot into his line of sight and snatched his book away. Harry almost went for his wand as irritation surged up from his gut. It probably didn’t help that – ever since he and Reg had returned from Gringotts, and after Reg had both assured him that the Trace was definitely gone, and that even if it wasn't, performing magic in the vicinity of a magical plot of land would not bring the Ministry down on his head – Harry had spent the past four nights practicing magic and activating runes, overall getting used to drawing his wand whenever he pleased. The desire to summon back the book that Reg had lent him was almost overwhelming.

 

                “Hermione, give that back!” He snapped instead, gritting his teeth when Hermione held it out of his reach and even began flipping through it. “Hermione!”

 

                “Where did you get this?” A familiar bookworm gleam entered her eyes. “I didn’t see this in the lib-”

 

                Harry wasn't known as an excellent Seeker for nothing, and in one fluid motion, he rolled off his bed and swiped the book back, as careful with the spine as he would with a Snitch’s hummingbird wings.

 

                “Harry!”

 

                “Yes?” Harry pinned her in place with a flat stare that made her mulish glare falter. “I'm not in the wrong here, Hermione. Don’t take my things without permission.”

 

                Hermione scowled. “It’s not _yours_ , you know. It has the Black insignia on the cover.”

 

                “But it’s not yours either, and I'm working with it,” Harry sighed, moving back to his bed. “You have no right coming in here and taking whatever you want.”

 

                “You don’t even take Ancient Runes!” Hermione rallied hotly. “You can’t possibly tell me that you actually understand what that book is even about.”

 

                Harry could feel a headache coming on. He couldn't understand what was wrong with his friends these days. Why were they always getting on his case, just because he had been happier than usual lately? Was that illegal now? “Whether or not I understand it is my business. Now I’ve got a lot of work to do; if all you're here for is to nag at me about Cedric _again_ , I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

 

                “I’m not nagging you!” Hermione retorted, bristling. “I’m trying to help! There’s something wrong with you, Harry. You're even talking oddly!”

 

                Harry threw his hands in the air. “Has it occurred to you that I might just be growing up? Look, I already explained that I’ve made my peace with what happened at the cemetery. I’ve sat both you and Ron down and told you a little about Reg. I’ve even shown you the crossword puzzles we did together, and _spoke what little French I learned from him_ as proof that all your suspicions are wrong! What more do you want from me?”

 

                “Just because that Muggle taught you a few things doesn’t mean I’m wrong!” Hermione shot back defensively, and Harry inwardly groaned. Maybe he shouldn't have used that particular wording. Hermione hated being wrong.

 

                “Just, please, leave, Hermione,” Harry turned back to his extracurricular homework. “I need to get this finished.”

 

                _Before tonight,_ Harry added silently. He had pretty much switched his hours around at this point, getting his sleep from around five in the morning to noon. Mrs. Weasley had looked like she wanted to protest when Harry started skipping breakfast but Sirius had stepped in and waved it off, citing that it was the summer holidays and Harry could do as he pleased, and it wasn't as if he was skiving off from house-cleaning either; he still joined them for a few hours in the afternoon. And after that night in the dining room, Mrs. Weasley had backed off just a little when it came to ordering people around. Or at least she no longer ordered Harry around. For now. Something about him talking back to her had startled her, as if she hadn't thought Harry had had it in him.

 

                “I thought we were friends, Harry,” Hermione’s voice was almost meek.

 

                Harry bit back another sigh and looked up again. “We _are_ friends, Hermione, and I’ve tried to see it from your point of view, I have, but have you looked at it from mine? Why can’t you just trust me when I tell you that I’m not repressing all my angst or something?”

 

                He didn’t want to keep arguing about this. It was pointless and frustrating and did nothing except put them at odds with each other even more. He supposed it was fortunate that Ron wasn't here to put in his two Knuts.

 

                “But Harry, you don’t-”

 

                Crash!

 

                They both jumped when something from downstairs obviously fell over, and then Mrs. Black’s painting started screeching again, throwing the entire household into an uproar once more. It was enough to distract Harry from his rising temper, as well as Hermione from her diatribe, enough that she only glanced back disapprovingly at him one more time before scooting out of the room to investigate along with a crowd of other people stampeded down the hallway.

 

                Harry stayed put, glancing down at where the pocket watch was resting in his sweater. It buzzed once before stopping, not a call for picking up, just a notification from Reg that he had been the reason for the commotion. Most likely, Kreacher had shoved over a cabinet for him.

 

                Harry chuckled, withdrew his wand, and flicked it at the door, closing and locking it before returning to his work. Better.

 

 

**XXI.**

                “There are wards that prevent Mr. Moody from seeing this section of the Black house, but you do realize that there’s nothing preventing him from seeing that you're not in the section where he _can_ see?”

 

                Harry shrugged with all the carelessness of a teenager living on luck and little else. “It’s alright; Professor Moody’s outside standing guard.”

 

                Regulus sighed, setting aside the book he was reading before rising to his feet. “You're too careless sometimes.”

 

                Harry made a face. “Everyone else is rushing around packing their trunks but I finished last night, and I don’t want to get caught up in the elephant stampede out there. Besides, it’s not like you can come see me off at the train station so I’ll have to make do now. You even told me to get a full seven hours of sleep for the past three nights.”

 

                Regulus almost rolled his eyes, but instead, he only moved forward to adjust the kid’s slightly crooked tie. It was in such atrocious Gryffindor colours but it couldn't be helped.

 

                “You remember what you’ll say to McGonagall?” He enquired as he stepped back.

 

                Harry nodded dutifully. “Ask her for a transfer into Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and show her the work I’ve done over the summer.” He shifted on the spot with nervous energy but stopped when Regulus arched a pointed eyebrow. “Do you really think I’ll be able to pass the placement exams?”

 

                “You've been working hard for two months,” Regulus stated calmly. “And you're a natural at Arithmancy; I can’t see you having any trouble there since I’ve already started you on the fifth-year material, and you're breezing through it. Ancient Runes was a bit rushed, I’ll admit; I would've preferred if you’d had a few more months to catch up with the third- and fourth-year work, but you have a good memory, and memorizing runes is basically what third-year Runes is, so it’s really only the fourth-year material that you’ll have some difficulties with. As you are now, I believe you’ll scrape by with an Acceptable, which is all it takes to skip forward directly into fifth-year Runes.”

 

                Harry scowled. “I don’t _want_ an Acceptable.”

 

                Regulus suppressed a smile. “Then study hard after you secure entrance into the course, and achieve an Outstanding on the OWL in June.”

 

                Harry straightened, flashing a grin. “Yeah, you bet. Mum had all Os, right? And so did you?”

 

                Regulus inclined his head. The Marauders had sung Evans praises at the beginning of their sixth year. Evans had not been pleased. Mortified had been a more accurate adjective.

 

                “Your father and godfather had good grades as well,” Regulus offered in neutral tones. “Sirius obtained all nine OWLs, and only his History received an Acceptable. Everything else was above that.”

 

                Harry waved a dismissive hand. “I’m _not_ getting an Acceptable, not even in History. I can get better grades than that.”

 

                Regulus examined him for a moment longer before tossing out carelessly, “We’ll see.”

 

                The offhand challenge sparked a fire in Harry’s eyes. Regulus hid a smirk.

 

                “Besides that,” He continued smoothly. “You remember the other things I told you to keep in mind?”

 

                “Occlumency every night before I go to bed,” Harry recited. “Don’t look Dumbledore or Snape in the eye, but don’t make it obvious either. Keep my inheritance a secret. Don’t leave my books lying around even with the cover charm on them. Keep up with my language studies. Set aside Tuesday and Thursday nights for study sessions with you, and three hours each weekend for Defense because this year’s DADA is going to be utter shite again. And don’t send any letters if I can help it, though if I absolutely have to, write it in some form of code, and try not to use Hedwig too much.”

 

                “Good,” Regulus approved. “Always keep that in mind. You never know who might intercept your mail, especially now when two sides are playing cat-and-mouse, and a third side is in denial.”

 

                Harry nodded solemnly, his brow scrunching up in thought. “Do you really think the Ministry’s going to try and interfere at Hogwarts this year? I mean, Hogwarts is Dumbledore’s territory.”

 

                “Which is why they will,” Regulus said with certainty. “Dumbledore is a joke these days, but the Ministry knows that he’s still rallying support. They want to tear him down, so they’ll try to attack him wherever they can. And you know what you did last year so they’ll be after you too. And not just them either; those who believe, those who don’t – regardless, all eyes will be on you.”

 

He paused, easily picking out the anxiety in the line of the kid’s shoulders, and the almost habitual way he still seemed to want to just keep his head down and shy away from attention at just the very thought of having to fight against the rest of the school once again this year.

 

“Harry,” He waited until the boy met his gaze. “Head high, back straight, and don’t let anyone walk over you. You are the last Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, and even more importantly than that, you are _right_. Anyone who says otherwise is delusional. Anyone who pesters you for evidence or details is not worth your time. Have some confidence in yourself. Gryffindor you may be, but right now, doubt and indecision are not emotions you can openly flaunt in public. How you act will sway the masses, and proceeding rashly will not help you. Control your temper, and conduct yourself with a cool head.” His hands came up to rest briefly on Harry’s shoulders. “You’ll be fine.”

 

Harry drew in a deep breath before letting it out again slowly. His shoulders relaxed. “Right. Thanks,” He quirked a lopsided smile. “Nothing’s ever easy in the Wizarding world, is it?”

 

“Nothing worth anything is ever easy; take it from me,” Regulus levelled a stern look on the boy. “Now, promise me you’ll think before you act? Gryffindor boldness can be useful in some cases, but in this instance, I do believe discretion is the better part of valour. You must tread carefully. Do not make enemies when there is no need for it.”

 

“I won’t,” Harry promised. “And... I’ll be able to contact you anytime, right? I mean, outside of the study sessions we agreed on? Just in case something comes up?”

 

Regulus hesitated momentarily. “Only if it is an emergency. I will be busy while you are away at school, and I won’t have time for in-depth discussions. However, if you are in danger, of course, do contact me.”

 

Green eyes narrowed with that instinctive leap of intuition that Regulus had noticed in Harry on occasion.

 

“You're going to fight Voldemort, aren’t you?” Concern coloured Harry’s words, and he hurried on before Regulus could say anything. “Obviously not directly, but...”

 

He trailed off, gaze searching Regulus’ face. Regulus remained unwaveringly impassive.

 

“You needn’t worry about me,” He assured evenly. “I can take care of myself.”

 

“But what if you need backup or something?” Harry pressed, features pinching.

 

“I have Kreacher,” Regulus reminded him patiently. “He has never let me down before. I will be fine.”

 

Harry eyed him for a long minute. “...And you're not going to tell me what you’ll be doing, are you?”

 

Regulus shrugged lightly, summoning a bland smile. “You have enough on your plate, Harry. This isn’t something you have to concern yourself with.”

 

Harry blew out a frustrated breath. “Of _course_ it is. You- Just-” He grumbled a bit under his breath, avoiding eye-contact. “I’d like to have a home to return to come Christmas, alright? If you get yourself killed between then and now, I'm not going to be very happy.”

 

Regulus stared, taken aback. Rather abruptly, words failed him. Likewise, Harry ran a hand through his hair, glancing off to the side in unspoken embarrassment.

 

“...I understand,” He eventually managed. Unbidden, his gaze flickered around the drawing room. Well, Grimmauld Place was definitely several steps up from the Dursleys’ house, and Harry certainly had more freedom. He could understand why the kid would prefer this place more.

 

Too perceptive eyes were drilling holes into him again. “For some reason,” Harry frowned. “I don’t think you do.”

 

The topic was dropped though. The atmosphere between them was a little too awkward to continue along the same vein.

 

Regulus cleared his throat. “Well, I believe that’s all.” He stalled, casting his mind back to the murky memories of Sirius’ interactions with James Potter’s parents. “Have a good term, Harry. Work hard, but don’t forget to take breaks in-between.”

 

Harry grinned at him, a little surprised and a little thrilled as if no one had ever said as much to him before.

 

There probably hadn't been.

 

 

**XXII.**

                “For heaven's sake, act more like a dog, Sirius!” Mrs. Weasley hissed from somewhere on the right, but Harry clung on to the lean body for a few precious seconds longer. There might still be an invisible divide between them that neither of them had been able to breach so far, but Sirius was his godfather, his family, and Harry was going to miss him.

 

                “My letters might be intercepted,” Harry quickly muttered into one furry ear as he hastily crouched down so that Sirius wouldn't have to look so human in animal form. “So I’ll send them through with Kreacher instead. You do the same, okay? Don’t just sulk in your mother’s room with Buckbeak all day. It’s not healthy.”

 

                Harry had never realized that dogs could pull sheepish but Sirius managed. He woofed what sounded like an agreement before nosing a goodbye into Harry’s chest. Harry rubbed the dog’s head one last time before ducking onto the train after his friends.

 

                “He shouldn't have come with us,” Hermione said in a worried voice.

 

“Oh, lighten up,” Ron rebuked. “He hasn't seen daylight for months, poor bloke.”

 

“Well,” Fred cut in, clapping his hands together. “Can't stand around chatting all day, we’ve got business to discuss with Lee. See you later.” And he and George disappeared down the corridor to the right.

 

“Well I guess I’ll see you two later too,” Harry nodded at Ron and Hermione. “You're heading to the prefect carriage, right?”

 

Hermione nodded back warily while Ron seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand. Harry rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s fine,” He assured them, hefting Hedwig’s cage and glancing at Ginny. “We’ll find a free compartment and wait for you there.”

 

Ginny nodded agreeably, and the four of them parted ways, heading off in different directions. Harry was rather glad that he had cast a feather-light charm on his trunk before leaving Grimmauld Place.

 

“Harry, Ginny,” A familiar voice called from behind them, and Harry turned to find Neville struggling towards them with his trunk and toad. “Hi... everywhere is full... I can’t find a seat...”

 

“Here’s one,” Ginny was peering into the last compartment. “There's only Loony Lovegood in here.”

 

                Harry frowned at the nickname. Who? Lovegood? He remembered that name from one of the more recent genealogy texts that Regulus had bought for him when he had expressed an interest in seeing how all the Purebloods were connected. The Lovegoods were nowhere near as old as the Potters or Blacks or even Bones but they had still been around long enough to put down roots. He was pretty sure the most recent was a girl a year younger than him named Luna.

 

                “Hello,” Harry interjected from the doorway, offering a polite smile when the girl with dirty blonde hair glanced up with silvery grey eyes. “I’m Harry Potter. That’s Neville Longbottom, and you probably already know Ginny. Do you mind if we join you?”

 

                Her gaze roamed over them, resting on him last before nodding. He inclined his head in thanks, and then waved Ginny and Neville through first before entering himself, sliding the door shut behind him.

 

                Luna, as it turned out, was a bit strange. She watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much as the average human, and she stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn't.

 

                _“Never show weakness,”_ _Regulus instructed during one of their by-the-fire conversations. “That is the first rule of Pureblood society. Some are more successful at it than others, but unless you are in the company of those you trust, never show the public anything more than what you want them to see.”_

_(“Why do Purebloods always have to put up an act?” Harry complained. “Can’t they just try to get along without looking for openings to stab each other in the back? Why are they always wanting to one-up each other? Can’t they just not fight over everything?”_

_Regulus’ mouth curved up with bone-deep cynicism. “It’s human nature to be selfish; you could say it’s because we all have free will to want things for ourselves. And so long as free will exists, there will always be conflict, and people will always fight. Purebloods are simply more... ambitious about it.”)_

 

                Harry lounged back in his seat, turning to Neville who was fidgeting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with Luna’s presence.

 

                “So how was your summer, Neville?” Harry prompted, and Neville latched on with visible relief.

 

                “About the same. Oh, but...” The other Gryffindor dug a hand into his schoolbag, rummaging around before pulling out what appeared to be a small grey cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with what looked like boils rather than spines. “Look what I got for my birthday! It’s a Mimbulus Mimbletonia. It's really, really rare. I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My Great Uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can breed from it.”

 

                Harry stared for a moment, trying to think of a nice way to phrase ‘how can anyone be interested in this sinister-looking grey thing’. But then, he wasn't a Herbology nut so maybe it was just a matter of perspective. He had loved Ancient Runes literally at first sight but he doubted Ron would find the basic ink sketches of single runes that Harry had started dabbling in very interesting.

 

                “Does it have any uses?” Harry asked tentatively.

 

                “Loads!” Neville confirmed proudly. “It's got an amazing defensive mechanism. Here, hold Trevor for me...”

 

                He dumped the toad into Harry's lap and took a quill from his schoolbag. Luna’s luminous eyes appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine again to watch what Neville was doing. Neville held the Mimbulus Mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.

 

                Even before liquid squirted from every boil on the plant, Harry was already going for his wand in the half-second before anything actually happened, drawing it in a slashing upward motion and muttering a containment charm he had recently learned that raised a wall of blue light around the plant. He wasn’t quite fast enough to close off the entire spell before thick, stinking, dark green jets of liquid slipped through the closing lines of the magical wall and flew in all directions – the ceiling, the windows the floor – but at least the four people in the compartment only received splashes of the stuff that stained their shoes and the hem of their robes. Neville was the worst off with the stuff drenching his lap but Harry had managed to protect the Gryffindor’s face and torso at the very least.

 

                “S- Sorry!” Neville gasped. “I haven't tried that before... Didn't realise it would be quite so...” He ducked his head. “Thanks, Harry. I didn't mean to do that. The Stinksap is- I’m sorry-”

 

                “It’s fine,” Harry waved his wand first at Ginny then at Luna with a Scourgify, vanishing the mess on their robes and shoes. “Everybody alright?”

 

                “Yeah,” Ginny pulled at her robes despite them being clean again while Luna nodded, smiling vaguely at him. “Just- don’t do that again, Neville.”

 

                “Sorry,” Neville repeated in a small voice, seeming to shrink in on himself.

 

                Harry frowned a bit before nudging the other boy, distractedly passing back Trevor at the same time. “Come on, let’s clean this place up. You do the windows while I do the floor and ceiling, okay?”

 

                Neville managed a wobbly smile that steadied when Harry grinned back with a joking, “Look at it this way – we get to practice our cleaning charms before we even reach the school. We’ll be all set for Flitwick’s review week.”

 

                Only seconds into their impromptu cleanup, the door of their compartment slid open, and Harry blinked in surprise when he found Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, standing in the doorway, gaze drawn to the lines of sludge still trickling down the windowpanes and smearing the floor.

 

                (Harry made a mental note to practice that charm until he could cast it instantaneously.)

 

“Oh, hello, Harry,” Cho dimpled a rather nervous smile. “Erm... bad time?”

 

Harry glanced around. “Well,” Harry allowed ruefully. “It could've been better.”

 

A flicker of surprise surfaced on Cho’s face, and a giggle slipped from her lips.

 

“I just thought I'd come say hello,” The Ravenclaw revealed. Her eyes darted around the compartment before she swayed forward an inch, features strengthening into something that made the practical part of his brain (which sounded awfully like Reg) whisper a warning. “You know, there’s room in my compartment. You're welcome to join me and my friends if you want, Harry. We could... get to know each other.”

 

Harry glanced at Neville who was staring at his shoes, and then at Ginny who was stony-faced, and even at Luna who was staring blatantly at Cho like she was some sort of never-before-seen specimen.

 

Needless to say, none of them were any help whatsoever.

 

“Er, no thanks,” Harry declined, gesturing loosely around him. “I haven’t seen my friends since last June so we’ve got some catching up to do. Maybe some other time?”

 

Though why she was offering in the first place, he didn't know; it wasn't like they were friends or anything. Last Harry had checked, he had embarrassed himself – badly – in front of Cho last year (and when he had told Reg about that particular incident, his mentor had laughed at him, the heartless jerk). And looking at her now, Harry was gratified to realize that the ridiculous crush he had had on her last year had fizzled out. Rationally, he knew that he had only been attracted to her on a physical level so he was relieved that he would no longer be making a fool of himself over her.

 

Why in the world was she inviting him to her compartment though? She should know that he had had a crush on her, but she _shouldn't_ know that he didn't anymore, so this couldn't be anything except a roundabout way to say that his supposed intentions were welcome. But that was just bad form because hadn’t Cedric been Cho’s boyfriend? Even if they hadn’t been going for the whole two-point-five kids and a white picket fence, two months shouldn't be enough to get over his _death_ , right? Because that was the only reason he could come up with in this situation where Cho would want to even _look_ at Harry right now, much less invite him into ‘getting to know each other’. Unless she was cruel enough to try punishing _him_ by doing this to remind him of his part in the Cedric debacle.

 

In the doorway, Cho’s expression cooled a degree but she still directed a sweet smile his way. “Are you sure? We have plenty of room.” Her gaze flitted around the compartment again, lingering on Luna, and then Neville, and then even Ginny who was quite popular amongst her year group, for a split second longer than strictly necessary. “And much better company, I think.”

 

Something cold settled in Harry’s gut. He wasn't the greatest at reading people, nowhere near on Reg’s level, but he could get the hint when it was virtually being thrown in his face.

 

“No thanks,” He reiterated. The smile he summoned up next was as close a replica to Reg’s frostily polite ‘you are so far beneath me that I don’t even know what you're doing still talking to me’ sneer as Harry could physically manage. “I'm fine here with my friends.”

 

And yeah, okay, Luna wasn't exactly a friend, and Ginny barely so, but it was the principle of the matter, not to mention they were younger, and it didn't take that far a stretch of the imagination to guess that Luna – at least – was the bully victim type.

 

Cho faltered at whatever she perceived from his face before drawing herself up to her full height with an offended sort of stiffness. “Well okay then. I suppose I’ll see you around at school.”

 

And without another word, she closed the door and departed.

 

“...You could've gone with her, Harry,” Neville piped up glumly in the ensuing silence.

 

Harry scoffed, jabbing his wand at the ceiling with more force than he had intended. The sludge erased itself like it thought Harry was planning on murdering it violently. “Why would I want to? She just insulted all of you.”

 

“Don’t you like her though?” Ginny pointed out with a sullen barb in her words that made Harry think that _her_ crush on him wasn't all gone after all.

 

“Not anymore,” Harry muttered, which, really, thank God for small mercies.

 

Neville waved his wand at one of the windowpanes. The Stinksap half-heartedly slouched into one-third-nonexistence. “But she’s...” He flushed. “You know.”

 

“No I don’t know,” Harry said staunchly. “And I don’t plan on knowing. Drop it, Nev. I don’t hang out with people who look down on my friends the way she did.”

 

 _Well,_ he amended in his head. _Maybe except Reg, but then, Ron and Hermione have been insulting him since the beginning, so he has the right. Plus, it’s less ‘looking down on’ and more ‘not caring about them one way or the other’ in his case._

 

It seemed he had said the right thing though, because the faintest shadow of a painfully elated smile twitched on Neville’s face, Ginny’s shoulders lost their rigidity, and Luna stared at him with something a little sharper than her seemingly typical dreaminess.

 

Harry smiled, much kinder this time, and demonstrated to Neville a much more definite wand movement to get rid of all the sludge in one go.

 

 

**XXIII.**

                To Harry’s relief, neither Hermione nor Ron brought up Reg or Cedric after they joined them. Of course, that just meant they would needle him about it again later but at least they wouldn't do it in front of other people.

 

                Unfortunately, Hermione and Luna – logic and faith if the Quibbler was anything to go by – got along like fire and water. They just did not mesh, especially after Hermione unknowingly put down Luna’s father’s magazine.

 

                So it was almost a reprieve from the cold war being waged when another visitor swung by for a chat.

 

                Almost.

 

                _Potential political ally, potential political ally, potential political ally,_ Harry chanted in his head as the sight of Draco Malfoy smirking at him from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle threatened to make him toss all his tolerance out the window.

 

                “Hello, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “I just stopped by to remind you to mind your manners this year or I'll have to give you detention. You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.”

 

                Harry shored up his Occlumency shields and nodded back curtly. “Congrats.”

 

He bit back the _I’m sure you earned it_ that wanted to leap off his tongue. Better not say something that was both obviously untrue, and would be taken as such even if Harry meant it.

 

Malfoy blinked, clearly taken aback at the tame rejoinder, but he shook it off after a few seconds, going for another taunt. “Tell me then, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley?”

 

Harry shrugged. “I’m fine with it. Ron will do a good job.”

 

Ron reddened, and Hermione shot a surprised look at him. Harry inwardly snorted. What, did she think he was jealous? Was that why they had been walking on eggshells whenever the prefect issue came up? Jealousy had always been Ron’s thing.

 

Malfoy glowered at him, evidently displeased with the direction this conversation was going.

 

“Just watch yourself, Potter,” His smirk returned with a vengeance. “Because I'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.”

 

“Get out!” Hermione snapped, standing up.

 

At the same time, Harry threw out sharply but as flippantly as he could, “The same as always then. Still, I really would appreciate less stalking this year, Malfoy. We’re getting to that age where people might misunderstand, you realize.”

 

Ron, Ginny, and Neville laughed, especially when Malfoy rocked back on his heels, looking perplexed and infuriated that his subtle threat had either flown right over Harry’s head or simply hadn't succeeded in rattling him.

 

With a last scowl over his shoulder, and a trace of mortified pink dusting his cheekbones, Malfoy retreated, taking Crabbe and Goyle with him.

 

“That was great, mate!” Ron guffawed. “Did you see his face?”

 

Harry made an agreeable noise at the back of his throat but most of his focus was on Hermione, leaning to the left with the pretense of picking up a Chocolate Frog and murmuring, “Don’t react like it bothers you, Hermione. You're just giving him more power.”

 

Hermione looked like she wanted to argue, or protest, but in the end, she settled for nodding jerkily, eyeing him strangely all the while.

 

Harry ignored it, as he had ignored all her looks throughout August. Instead, he turned his thoughts to Malfoy’s words. So the blond knew Sirius’ Animagus form, did he? Or had it just been a coincidence? No, he had to treat it as if Malfoy did know, and if that were true, then Harry’s first order of business after the feast would be to send letters off with Kreacher to both Sirius and Reg. A heads-up was better than nothing. After all, Malfoy shouldn’t know, unless Mr. Malfoy told him, and the only way Mr. Malfoy would know would be if someone had leaked it.

 

Wormtail then? Most likely. Or Snape? Whose side was Reg’s old friend really on anyway? Even Reg had admitted that he didn't truly know anymore.

 

Well, it was no use stewing over things Harry couldn't do anything about right now. With a sigh, he retrieved one of Reg’s Ancient Runes books from his schoolbag, already charmed to show a regular transfiguration text, and settled down to study.

 

He had placement exams to pass.

 

**Please leave a review on your way out.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I changed from writing in past tense to present tense. I hope nobody minds. It’s been a while, and I actually wrote half of this chapter before I even realized the change from the previous chapters.
> 
> On a different note, HERE’s THE NEXT GODDAMN CHAPTER SO Y’ALL CAN STOP COMPLAINING. Yes, it’s a new chapter. NO, it does not mean I’ll be updating this regularly again, or any of my other older fics for that matter, so don’t ask. I just reread the first three chapters of DMW yesterday, got inspiration, got motivation, and then hammered out chapter 4 in literally a day, and it probably ain’t gonna happen again, at least not for a while. And it isn’t even a particularly interesting chapter; might be partly why it took so long for me to get out. I have to set the foundation for the fifth-year arc here.

 

“...because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

From his seat at the Gryffindor table, Harry frowns to himself even as Hermione mutters ominously under her breath to Ron.  So Reg was right.  Not that Harry was ever expecting otherwise; the man’s usually right about… well, everything.  It would actually be kind of frustrating if not for the fact that Reg is perfectly willing to teach all those things to Harry in turn.

As Dumbledore dismisses them, everyone begins to stand, more than ready to leave the hall.  Harry keeps half an ear on his friends, suppressing a snort when he hears Ron’s “Hey – hey, you lot!  Midgets!”, and then Hermione’s immediate rebuttal.

Harry still doesn’t particularly want to be prefect, especially considering all the attention – good and bad – that he’s going to have to deal with this year.  But he does wonder about the requirements of a prefect – when he thought about it at all in the past, he had a vague sense that prefects should have consistently high marks in student rankings each year, decent social standing, and a reputation for – at the very least – being confident, friendly, and approachable.  Like Cedric.  He supposes he was wrong though, considering who was chosen for Slytherin.  Then again, Slytherin prefects might be chosen by different criteria.  Who the bloody hell knows with Snape.

Gryffindor too.  Harry’s marks have never been brilliant like Hermione’s but they’ve always been better than Ron’s.  From an objective standpoint, he’s also more well-known, not just because of the Boy Who Lived tripe but because he’s an excellent Seeker for Gryffindor and everyone damn well knows it.  He’d _like_ to think he’s approachable and fairly friendly, although he does prefer keeping to himself or only spending time with people he knows well, but that can be said of Ron too.  As far as Harry knows, Ron’s never even spoken to a younger student unless he’s talking to Ginny, so neither of them can really be considered role models in their House.

He casts an idle eye over the nervous first-years, smiling encouragingly when a few of them look in his direction.  A blond boy next to Euan Abercrombie looks petrified; he nudges Euan and whispers something in his ear.  Euan looks equally frightened and steals a horrified look at Harry instead, and Harry feels his smile fade.

Right, that’s probably it.  Who wants a prefect that all the kids would be terrified of?

He sighs and makes his way out of the Great Hall alone, leaving Ron and Hermione to their new duties as he strides after the other clusters of Gryffindors.  He ignores the whispering, the staring and outright pointing as he passes.

 _Head high, back straight,_ Reg told him just this morning.  Harry squares his shoulders and tries his level best to copy the smooth regal gait that Reg – even when he was parading as a muggle – always had.  And Harry’s pocket watch is tucked inside his shirt.  It’s not exactly how most people wear them but the silver chain around his neck is a comforting weight and serves as a reminder of his mentor.

He reaches the Gryffindor Tower first, ahead of the rush, and he’s shrugged out of his robes and fished out his pyjamas from his trunk by the time Dean and Seamus appear.  They’re talking in low voices but it wouldn’t have caught Harry’s attention if not for the way their footsteps pause in the doorway and their conversation immediately cuts off, no doubt as soon as they spotted Harry.

Harry swallows down the bitter swell of heat rising in his throat because he can guess what’s up, especially when he glances over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of Seamus’ face as his two dorm mates duck inside and veer off toward their own beds.  He has never been more grateful for the handful of comportment lessons Reg made him sit through than in this moment because when he speaks, his voice comes out steady enough to pass as normal, with an unaffected casualness that keeps his tone light.

“Hi Dean, Seamus,” He greets, hanging up his robes on a hook at the end of his bed.

“Hey Harry,” It’s Dean who replies, easy and fairly cheerful as he hangs up a West Ham poster, so Harry hopes that he won’t have any problems from that corner at least.  “Good holiday?”

“Decent,” Harry allows a smile since his back is turned to the rest of the room.  All things considered, his summer’s been a lot more than decent, and he never would’ve thought he’d be able to say that back in June.  “You?”

Neville wanders in at that moment, and Harry exchanges a nod with the other boy.

“Yeah, it was okay,” Dean chuckles.  “Better than Seamus’ anyway, he was just telling me.”

Resignation knots Harry’s stomach even as he braces himself.

“Why, what happened, Seamus?”  Neville is the one who asks as he tenderly places his Mimbulus Mimbletonia on his bedside cabinet.

Seamus doesn’t answer immediately; he’s making rather a meal of ensuring that his poster of the Kenmare Kestrels Quidditch team is quite straight. Then he says, with his back still turned to Harry, “Me mam didn't want me to come back.”

Harry blows out a silent breath, mans up, and turns around, hands coming up to loosen his tie just to keep them occupied and remind himself that he shouldn’t do anything rash.  “Oh?  Why not?”

“She didn't want me to come back to Hogwarts.”

Seamus turns away from his poster and pulls his own pyjamas out of his trunk, still not looking at Harry.

 _Coward_ , something in Harry sneers.  _You want to call me a liar, then at the very least, look me in the eye, Finnigan._

This time, Harry doesn’t speak, letting the increasingly tense silence do it for him.  Seamus still doesn’t answer until he’s finished buttoning his pyjamas, but Harry sees his ears redden as the Irish boy squirms under Harry’s forceful gaze.

“Because,” He says in a measured voice, still avoiding Harry’s eye.  “Well, I suppose because of you.  She… er… well, it’s not just you, it’s Dumbledore, too…”

“She believes the  _Daily Prophet_ then?”  Harry finishes tersely, fed up with the hemming and hawing, and really, could they just get to the point before he really does lose his temper.  “She thinks I’m a liar and Dumbledore’s an old fool?”

Seamus finally looks up at him.  “Yeah, something like that.”

Harry says nothing right away.  Mostly, he focuses on breathing, on his Occlumency shields, on the pocket watch still pressed against his ribs.  He knew this was coming.  He can handle it.

( _He didn’t expect it to come from a friend though.  They’re not close friends of course but…_ )

He hangs his tie up too, then he begins changing into his pyjamas.  He sits down on the edge of his bed, scrutinizing the hangings critically.  A few privacy spells on them would be good, at least until he knows enough runes to set up some wards.

“Look,” Seamus says, and Harry turns his gaze back on his dorm mate.  “What did happen that night when… you know, when… with Cedric Diggory and all?”

Seamus sounds nervous and eager at the same time, which is… well honestly, it’s kind of sick, in Harry’s opinion.  But he supposes it’s not so surprising that your average teenage boy would get excited about murder and death, even – or maybe especially – when it’s someone they know.  Because they don’t know better.  Dudley is, with his gory video games and violence and bullying, and you can’t really get more average than Dudley.  Even Dean, who was bending over his trunk trying to retrieve a slipper, goes oddly still, and Harry knows he’s listening just as hard as the rest of the room.

He’ll give Neville points though.  Neville mostly just looks frozen in place with alarm, expression somewhere between anxious concern and _dear Merlin could everybody please just shut up_.

Possibly, Harry is projecting.  But he knows what he says next will make or break his relationship with Seamus for at least the next school year, and for all that a part of him wants to punch Seamus in the nose and explode with righteous fury, that isn’t going to help him in the long run, and he can almost hear Reg’s voice, quietly lecturing, _give only enough to satisfy, but never so much that you end up the braggart or the beggar.  To boast of your deeds is foolish and will only earn you enemies and false sympathy, to grovel for support is neither dignified nor will it be freely given, and neither of those will earn you true respect.  You have the moral high ground.  Use it.  Shame them.  But not so much that their pride cannot forgive it.  And finally, be gracious in your forgiveness.  But only ever once._

“Cedric died,” Harry says simply, gaze never wavering from Seamus’ face.  “He was killed by a Death Eater, and Voldemort returned.”

The room flinches.  Neville squeaks.  Harry lets the silence stretch, waiting until Seamus swallows and opens his mouth again.

“That’s all I’m saying on the matter,” He continues evenly.  “It’s what Dumbledore told everyone last year.  It’s what I said too, and what I’m still saying now.  If you want all the details about how Cedric lost his life, well, that’s not something I’m ever going to tell you or anyone else, just to satisfy your morbid curiosity.  Frankly, it’s neither respectful to Cedric, nor is it any of your business.”

Seamus flushes.  Anger.  Embarrassment.  A tinge of shame.  Time to pull it back a bit.

“Look Seamus,” Harry straightens but doesn’t bother getting up.  He should never need physical height to intimidate.  To show his strength.  His voice gains a steel that slams a door in whatever Seamus was about to retort with.  “I can shout at you that Voldemort is back until I’m blue in the face, but when it comes down to it, whether you believe me or not, that’s entirely up to you.  I can’t present Voldemort to you as proof.  I rather doubt you’d want that anyway.  I have zero hard evidence for you, aside from Cedric’s body, and you already saw that.  The only thing I can give you is my word.”

He pauses again.  Keeps his posture loose and calm but controlled.  Poised.  Not a hint of temper anywhere.  In contrast, all three of his roommates are wide-eyed or pale.  Or both.

“I understand that we’ve never been particularly close,” He forges on, eyes intent on Seamus, barely blinking, never letting the other boy look away.  “So I can even understand why my word alone might not be enough for you.  But we’ve shared living space together for the past four years – we’ve shared a House, we’ve shared classes, and meals, and parties – and I think the question you need to ask yourself now is not whether or not you, or your mum, believe that Voldemort has really returned.  I think the question you need to ask yourself now is whether or not I’m the sort of bloke who’d use Cedric’s death just so I can run around and claim that the _monster_ who murdered both my parents and countless others is alive again and out for my blood, all because _I want attention_.  Attention I already have plenty of every single year.”

In one fluid movement, Harry stands, and a spark of cold vindication purrs inside his chest when Seamus instinctively takes a step back.  He lets himself shrug.  “If the answer’s yes, then clearly, I’ve wasted my breath, and nothing else I say will make one jot of difference to you.”

He finally looks away.  Looks at Dean who looks somewhat shocked.  Looks at Neville who shifts from foot to foot.  Looks once more at Seamus, who’s dropped his gaze and turned red but doesn’t speak.  Then he stoops and grabs his toothbrush and facecloth.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to brush my teeth and go to bed.  It’s been a long day, and it’ll be a longer one tomorrow.”

He sweeps past all of them and ducks into the bathroom.  The stunned silence remains even as Harry shuts the door behind him.  He doubts anyone’s going to barge in after him.

His back hits the far wall, and he slides down until his bum is on the floor.  Then he finally lets out a whooshing exhale and leans his forehead on his raised knees.

Merlin, that was nerve-wracking, somehow more so than confronting Mrs. Weasley was, and he doubts he’ll ever completely adjust to speaking in public.  It’s a miracle he didn’t stumble over his words, and quite likely, the only reason he didn’t lose his temper was because he didn’t allow Seamus to snap back with another stupid accusation.

But he did it.  Harry’s fairly certain he didn’t botch the whole confrontation, even though he basically mimicked everything off Reg, from composure to speech pattern.  The end could’ve probably used a little work – on hindsight, it seemed a bit abrupt, and the ringing impact he meant to leave didn’t ring quite as much as he wanted it to.

But overall, Harry didn’t retaliate with anger or the scathing insults that were at the tip of his tongue, he handled the incident without losing the upper hand, and he left Seamus’ pride some very generous breathing room.

Seamus is only the first step though.  A minor achievement in the greater scheme of things.  Undoubtedly, the rest of the British Wizarding population will be much harder to face down.  Still, Harry never would’ve been able to do that even just two months ago, and no one can say he can’t take a little pride from that.

 

* * *

 

Nobody talked again last night, and Ron didn’t seem to notice anything when he came in after introducing the first-years to the Tower with Hermione.  But in the morning, Harry’s just coming out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, when Seamus shuffles in, his hair sleep-mussed, a towel over one arm as he heads for the other shower.

“I reckon I should write me mam,” He mumbles without really looking at Harry, fussing with the shower curtains like he’s forgotten how they work.  “Work on… talking her around.  Nobody wants to hear You-Know-Who’s back but it’s probably best to… prepare for the worst.”

Harry eyes him for a moment before turning to the mirror and trying to tame his damp hair a bit.

“Probably,” He agrees, inwardly pumping a fist in the air.  “Even an emergency portkey would be better than nothing.”

The rigid line of Seamus’ shoulders eases.  “Good point,” Seamus nods, sounding more like himself as he kicks off his pyjama pants.

“Mm-hm.”  Harry gives up on his hair and heads for the door.  He raps his knuckles once against Seamus’ shoulder as he passes before taking his leave.  The shower turns on as Harry makes his way back to his four-poster, the noise muffled by the door, but he can hear Seamus’ usual cheerful off-key whistle start up under the drum of falling water.

Ron’s still snoring.  Neville’s watering his new plant but he throws a shy glance full of admiration at Harry when they catch each other’s eye.  Harry shoves down the reflexive embarrassment and tries not to let it show as he gets dressed for the day, and then starts packing his bag.  He frowns after a moment, then grabs his wand and spells the thing with a Feather-light Charm.  Why he never did that before, he has no idea, especially on the first day back when they won’t know what classes they’ll have until breakfast.

Books.  Parchment.  Homework.  Quills.  Inkpot.  Wand.  Pocket watch.

He locks his trunk and turns around, only to blink when he finds Dean watching him from where he’s absently shuffling his own textbooks into his bag.

“You’re different,” Dean remarks thoughtfully before Harry can say anything.

Harry blinks again, then looks at Neville, who shrugs, less in an _I_ _don’t know what he’s talking about_ way and more in an _I agree_ kind.

“Not in a bad way,” Dean adds before getting to his feet, grabbing his toiletries, and ambling towards the bathroom as well.

Harry stares after him, then mentally shrugs and makes himself comfortable on his bed again, cracking open the book on runes that he didn’t quite finish last night.

Neville goes back to his plants.

Ron continues to snore.  He doesn’t wake until Harry sets off his alarm right next to the redhead’s ear.

 

* * *

 

After Grubbly-Plank’s introduction last night, Harry’s been feeling less guilty about his plans to drop Care.  If Hagrid isn’t teaching it, he has no reason to take it, but he is worried about _where_ Hagrid is if he isn’t at Hogwarts.

“Look at today!”  Ron is complaining from across the table.  “History of Magic, double Potions, Divination, and double Defence Against the Dark Arts… Binns, Snape, Trelawney, and that Umbridge woman all in one day!  I wish Fred and George'd hurry up and get those Skiving Snackboxes sorted-”

“Do mine ears deceive me?”  Fred says, arriving with George and squeezing onto the bench with Harry, one on each side.  “Hogwarts prefects surely don't wish to skive off lessons?”

“Look what we've got today,” Ron says grumpily, shoving his timetable under Fred's nose.  “That's the worst Monday I've ever seen.”

“Fair point, little bro,” Fred concedes, scanning the column.  “You can have a bit of Nosebleed Nougat cheap if you like.”

“Why's it cheap?”  Ron asks suspiciously.

“Because you'll keep bleeding ’til you shrivel up; we haven't got an antidote yet,” George says matter-of-factly, helping himself to a kipper.  Harry snorts as he scans his own schedule – same as Ron’s, for now – and both twins flash matching grins at him.

“What about you, Harry?”  Fred tilts his head to squint at Harry’s schedule.

“His is the same as mine,” Ron interjects with a roll of his eyes.  “Like it’s been the last two years; you already know that.”

Fred’s eyebrows go up, and George slides a glance at Harry, but neither of them say anything, and soon, they’re sniggering at Hermione’s attempt to scold them for trying to hire testers for their Snackboxes.

Harry recalls the twins back at Grimmauld Place, occasionally wandering into the bedroom that Harry and Ron slept in to visit Harry when Ron and Hermione were downstairs.  So they knew about his sudden studying frenzy as well, but unlike Hermione, they didn’t really comment on it aside from an impressed whistle from George when he first caught sight of all the Arithmancy worksheets and Ancient Runes readings that Reg assigned him.

And Harry supposes they’re both smart enough to realize he wasn’t doing all that work just to set it aside now and continue Care and Divination.

Harry considers telling Ron and Hermione, but honestly, it’s _his_ education, and once they find out, he’ll never hear the end of it.  He can already picture their reactions, and he’s not looking forward to it, but if he’s going to have to field them either way, he’d rather tell them later so he won’t have to deal with it until after he’s sat his placement exams.

And _that’s_ only if McGonagall allows it.  _And_ he passes.

But no, he _will_ pass.  He’s studied harder in the past two months than he ever has in his entire life, and he doesn’t even want to think about how disappointed both he _and_ Reg will be if he fails.

“Well, we’re off,” Fred announces, rising to his feet again and clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder.  “We have Herbology first.  C’mon, George, if we get there early, we might be able to sell a few Extendable Ears.”

George gets up as well, ruffles Harry’s hair, smirks at Harry’s indignant scowl, and then he and his brother both sweep out of the Great Hall, taking their chaotic energy with them.

“Those two!”  Hermione huffs, sounding more than a little disgruntled.  “And Ron!  You should’ve backed me up!  We’re prefects now!  You can’t let your brothers get away with these things anymore!”

Harry tunes out Ron’s sullen reply, pulling out a chart to review his runes again.  He’s planning on approaching McGonagall after classes today, and if the woman agrees, Harry will most likely sit the exams this weekend.  It’s one of the main reasons Reg advised him not to owl McGonagall about the matter when Harry was still back in Grimmauld Place.  It gives Harry an extra week to prepare, and honestly, he needs all the time he can get.  First week is review week for most classes anyway – except Snape, who’s a sadistic arse, and DADA because they have a new professor every year who likes teaching their own thing – so he won’t be missing any new material in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes.

Even better – like Ron said, they have History of Magic first thing, and that’s basically a free study period all on its own.

 

* * *

 

Potions is as horrible as it always is.  Snape swoops in and starts insulting all the Gryffindors without so much as a by-your-leave.  The man talks about their Potions OWL in June, and Harry – already imagining Snape’s face when he receives news of Harry achieving an Outstanding on the exam – is even more determined to ace it.

But he also takes a deep breath and firmly reminds himself that Snape used to be Reg’s best friend.  And James Potter used to bully them both.  Not that that’s an excuse for the Potions master to act as nasty as he does, and he doesn’t like Snape any more than he usually does – he probably never will – but he sternly tells himself to remain cordial at the very least and focus on the damn potion of the day instead of getting distracted with glaring at Snape or something.

Which is a smart plan, really, considering they have to brew the Draught of Peace today.  He and Reg didn’t do much Potions review in their time together but Reg did take him down to the Potions lab a few times just to watch Harry brew a Forgetfulness Potion, then a Shrinking Solution, and then a Wit-Sharpening Potion all by memory before patiently guiding him through a Calming Draught and an Invigoration Draught – both of which are taught in fifth year.

Suffice it to say, Harry did much better in an environment free of Snape’s verbal abuse and Malfoy’s sabotage attempts.  Honestly, when it comes down to it, Potions is a lot like cooking – even more precision is necessary but they’re similar – and if there’s one thing Harry excels at, it’s cooking.

They didn’t brew the Draught of Peace though – they simply didn’t have time – but Harry did read up on it several times so he knows all the steps in his head, which means he has no need to repeatedly strain his eyes just to read the instructions on the board, something made doubly hard considering the steam that’s already starting to fill the dungeon.  Before he begins, he even mutters a variation of the Shield Charm around his cauldron, just in case.  No way is he letting any of the Slytherins get him in trouble again.

He’s sweating profusely by the end of class, but at least his potion is – to his heartfelt relief – emitting the correct silver-coloured vapour, which is more than he can say for quite a few other students’ potions.  A peek at Ron’s cauldron makes him wince; that one’s spitting green sparks somehow.  Neville’s on the other hand isn’t emitting anything at all.  Hermione’s done well though, as Harry expected.

 He checks his cauldron again, frowning a little as he studies the colour of the potion itself.  The end result is supposed to be a turquoise blue but it’s currently maybe five shades too blue to be turquoise.  It’s _close_ though.  But ugh, he really hopes Snape won’t fail him just for that.

Knowing Snape, it’s a real possibility.

As if on cue, the man comes to a looming stop in front of Harry’s cauldron, mouth already curled into a sneer, no doubt itching to lambast Harry with whatever harsh criticism he has in mind today.

Then he stops, and his expression transforms into a hard glower as he pins Harry with eyes that glitter with hatred.  Harry keeps his gaze down, pretending to check the flames under his cauldron.

“Your stirring is evidently sloppy, Potter,” Snape finally bites out.  “One would think, after four years, such a basic technique would not be beyond even you.”

Harry’s jaw clenches but he says nothing as he waits for Snape’s verdict.  For a split second, it looks almost as if the man might mark a zero down for him regardless of the fact that Harry’s potion is very near perfect, or even vanish the contents of Harry’s cauldron and give him a zero that way – it wouldn’t be the first time – but then Snape turns on his heel, mood fouler than ever, and stalks over to Ron to ridicule his work instead.

Harry – slightly guiltily – breathes a sigh of relief and begins ladling some of the potion out to fill a flagon.  He can’t wait until class is over.

 

* * *

 

Harry is tempted to skip Divination – very tempted – but he doesn’t in the end.  On the off-chance McGonagall really doesn’t allow him to drop it, he doesn’t want his attendance record already skewed.  So he spends an hour slaving over _The Dream Oracle_ and divining his dreams.

And then it’s DADA, and Harry never thought it would be possible for him to hate anyone more than he hates Snape, but apparently, there’s a first for everything.

Something about Dolores Umbridge makes Harry dislike her before she ever even opens her mouth.  It isn’t even because she’s a Ministry mole, although that certainly contributes to it.  Maybe it’s all the pink.  Maybe it’s just her face.  Harry can’t decide whether it’s the colour that makes the woman look bad, or the woman who makes the pink look bad.

Quite possibly the woman.  And then she does open her mouth, and Harry hasn’t been treated like he’s sitting in a classroom full of six-year-olds since he was actually six.  It’s offensive.

She gets them to read the first chapter of _Defensive Magical Theory_.  Harry’s only scanned it with minimal attention, and he still fell asleep before he got through it.  Reg took one look at it and sneered with all the condescending disgust he could muster, which – for a Black – was quite a lot.  The textbook was just desperately dull, and a look around the classroom tells him that he’s not the only one who thinks so.

But then he catches sight of Hermione, and he’s more than a little surprised to find that she hasn’t even cracked open her copy.  Instead, she’s staring fixedly at Umbridge with her hand in the air.

Something like dread makes his stomach plummet.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”  Umbridge finally asks when most of the class is staring at Hermione, and the ensuing face-off between students and professor almost makes Harry want to groan and bury his head in his arms.

Almost every Gryffindor joins in, clamoring about not being able to practice magic in class and arguing about the course aims, all while Umbridge riles everyone up even further with her patronizing talking-down-to-a-child voice that makes even Harry – who was forewarned by Reg about exactly this – want to take a go at her.

But Harry grits his teeth and holds his tongue.  He promised – _promised_ – Reg he would watch his temper and learn to pick his battles.  Getting into a fight with a Ministry lackey whose _entire job_ here at Hogwarts is to deny Voldemort’s existence and hopefully get both Harry and Dumbledore in trouble for claiming the opposite is hardly conducive to keeping that promise.

It helps that – in-between the increasingly loud voices of his classmates – Umbridge keeps looking at him, more disappointed every time she glances over and finds Harry as silent as stone.

“And what if we meet a Dark wizard one day?”  Ron shouts belligerently without raising his hand.  Nobody really is anymore.  A few simply keep their hand in the air without taking it back down.

“That is enough!”  Umbridge finally says, loudest of all over everyone else.  She’s puffed up in a way that reminds Harry distinctly of a bullfrog, and yet she surveys the class with something like triumph.  “Ten points from Gryffindor.  Each.  For disrupting class.” She sits back down behind her desk.  “The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard.  If you are still worried, by all means, come and see me outside class hours.  If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards,” Her pouchy eyes settle on Harry once more.  “I would like to hear about it.  I am here to help.  I am your friend.  And now, you will kindly continue your reading.  Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners’.”

The rest of class is filled with the rustle of pages and nodding heads, more than one pair of eyes glassed over with boredom.  At least for now, Umbridge seems to have taken the wind out of even Ron and Hermione’s sails.

Harry can't see that lasting.

 

* * *

 

“And why didn’t you say anything, Harry?”  Ron demands, ears still red, rounding on Harry the moment they’re out of earshot of Umbridge.  Hermione is scowling from beside Ron, and every other Gryffindor is shamelessly eavesdropping from behind while pretending – without much success – not to.

“And what would you have had me say?”  Harry shoots back tersely as they head up a flight of stairs.  “Umbridge was sent by the Ministry for the explicit purpose of spreading their propaganda and furthering their smear campaign against me and Dumbledore.  Anything I said wouldn’t have made a difference to her.”

“But-!”

“Ron,” Harry stops and turns to face her, making both his friends and everyone else stop as well.  “Everything I have to say about Voldemort, I have _already_ _said_.  Getting into a screaming match against some Ministry spy in the middle of class isn’t going to make or break the world’s opinion of whether or not they think I’m a liar.  The _only thing_ it would do is give Umbridge more power to punish me, to punish you and Gryffindors and whoever else she thinks is being too defiant of the Ministry.”

“She’s also refusing to let us do magic!”  Hermione cuts in, eyes flashing.  “And in our OWL year too!  I agree that we should watch ourselves around her but we’ll fail our exams if she doesn’t even let us practice a single spell-”

“-in class,” Harry shrugs, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder before he starts climbing the stairs again.  “So self-study.  We all know how to do that.”  His expression darkens, and for the first time that day, he lets his anger rise to a seething mass just below the surface of his emotions.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not letting some toad-woman who doesn’t even have the courage to face reality dictate what I can or cannot do.”

This time, his words seem to linger in the air, carrying to the ears of every student around him.

What they do with them now is out of Harry’s hands.

 

* * *

 

He goes to see McGonagall after Defense, as soon as he can slip away from Ron and Hermione, who are once again bickering about what Umbridge is trying to do at Hogwarts.  They don’t even notice him leaving.

He pauses outside McGonagall’s office, double-checking that he’s brought every – school-approved – book and worksheet for both Arithmancy and Runes before raking an anxious hand through his hair.

And then immediately stops.  Once or twice, he caught Reg watching him whenever Harry did that back at Grimmauld, with a faint look of distaste that Harry’s pretty sure even Reg himself didn’t know he was wearing.  Harry suspects that the gesture reminds his mentor of Harry’s father for one reason or another, and not in a particularly good way, so Harry tries not to do it.  There is so very little that pushes Reg to the point where he would actually visibly _show_ how much he… well – Harry’s come to more or less realize – how much Reg truly _hates_ James Potter.  Possibly as much as Snape does.  But normally, _for Harry_ , Reg hides it ridiculously well and with enviable ease, he tells Harry little tidbits about James and the other Marauders whenever Harry wants, and he’s never once mistaken the son for the father, something which Harry is infinitely grateful for, so in return, when the occasional random detail about Harry’s father crops up in a way that seems to hit Reg harder than most other things, Harry makes a conscious effort to never bring it up again.

So he simply checks his bag one last time, and then lifts his hand and gives the door in front of him three sharp knocks.

It only takes seconds for the door to swing open, and Professor McGonagall is standing there, lips pursing the moment she sees Harry like she thinks Harry’s gotten into another spot of trouble.  “Mr. Potter, is there something I can help you with?”

Harry straightens, absently noting with some surprise that he’s almost McGonagall’s height now.  It’s hard to remember being so short that his Transfigurations professor seemed to tower over him.

“Um, yes, Professor,” Harry says, inwardly wincing at the ‘um’.  He can practically hear Reg’s long-suffering sigh.  “I wanted to talk to you about my electives, and whether or not it would be possible to transfer into Arithmancy and Runes instead.”

McGonagall stares at him, clearly taken aback as if this very school-related topic is the last thing she expected him to come to her with.  Admittedly, Harry hasn’t given her all that much proof in the past for her to presume otherwise.

“Well, come in then,” She finally says, stepping back and letting him through.  When they’re seated again, McGonagall behind her desk, Harry in front of it, Harry digs into his bag and pulls out the books he’s studied and the work he’s done for each subject, placing them in a neat pile on the desk.

“I’ve been doing some thinking this summer,” Harry begins carefully.  “And one of the things that I’ve come to realize is that I haven’t been… trying as hard as I could’ve in school.  In my classes.  My electives for example.  I-” He flushes a little.  “I admit that I chose Care of Magical Creatures and Divination because I thought they were the easiest, and I wanted to stick with Ron, but some of the things – some of the fields – that I’ve looked into recently as possible future careers require neither of those subjects, and to be honest, Divination is a waste of my time.”

He thinks he catches a glimpse of a shadow of a smile at McGonagall’s lips, but mostly, she just watches him with an unblinking intensity not unlike that of a cat’s.  Harry clears his throat and hurries on doggedly.  “But Arithmancy and Ancient Runes – I’ve read some texts on them-” He taps a finger on _Theories of Numerology_.  “-and I find both to be far more interesting, not to mention more useful to me.  I’ve been studying all summer, and I’ve completed some worksheets I managed to dig up as well.  I would like a chance to take the placement exams to get into the fifth-year classes, and I’m fairly confident I can pass both.”

Silence reigns as McGonagall gives the books a quick perusal before putting on her spectacles and then picking up the file containing Harry’s homework, taking her time to flip through those.  Her expression doesn’t really change throughout but her eyebrows go up more than once.  Harry hopes that’s a good sign.

“This is… unexpected,” McGonagall finally tells him as she lowers the worksheets, peering at him with a thoughtful gleam in her eyes.  “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Potter, I have always believed you could do better if you only made the effort.  And stayed out of trouble more often.”

Harry’s cheeks feel hot for a moment.

“But this is impressive work,” She continues, motioning at the papers.  “I will need Professor Vector and Professor Babbling – the Arithmancy and Ancient Runes professors respectively – to look over these more closely, but I do believe you have at least proven that you will take the placement exams seriously.”

Harry instantly brightens, and McGonagall’s features soften.  “Then you’ll let me…?”

“Yes, of course,” His Head of House nods briskly, shuffling the papers back into the folder.  “I am not a master in either field but even a preliminary assessment of your work tells me that you have a decent foundational understanding of each subject.”

She pauses, and then reaches for her quill to make a short note in a planner on her desk.  “You have permission to skip the rest of this week’s Divination and Care of Magical Creatures lessons.  Do take that time to do some more review, Mr. Potter.  I will need to confer with the other professors but your exams should take place sometime this Saturday, and you will know the results by Sunday.  If you pass both, you will join the other fifth-years in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, beginning Monday.  If not, you will have to continue Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, understand?”

Harry nods eagerly.  “Yes, Professor.  Thank you.”

McGonagall regards him with something like approval.  “Very well then.”  She tilts her head.  “If I may ask, Potter, what potential careers did you come across that interested you so much?”

“Oh, well,” Harry smiles a little.  “I thought, maybe, a librarian.  Or a curse-breaker.”  McGonagall blinks at him.  Harry clarifies with more enthusiasm, “I’m interested in runes and how you can create traps and wards and all kinds of other magicks from them.  And I want to travel.  I’ve read a bit about magical libraries around the world and how they hire librarians to find books for them and bring them back, and the protections on them are updated constantly, and then there’s all the research you’d have to do just to track down a talking grimoire or something without getting, well, killed.  I had no idea working for a magical library could be so cool!  And curse-breakers – especially self-employed ones – need to be able to erect wards and break into them, and they do quite a bit of exploring too since expeditions into tombs or city ruins tend to hire curse-breakers all the time.  I-”

He breaks off at last, realizing that perhaps he’s begun rambling.  But McGonagall doesn’t seem to mind.  In fact, she looks amused and somewhat… wistful?  Harry coughs awkwardly nonetheless, smiling sheepishly back at her.

“Well, you seem to have given your future quite a bit of thought,” McGonagall observes before granting him a rare smile.   “If you decide to become a curse-breaker, it may be wiser to work under an established agency or business first, for both a steady income and so that you would have time to cultivate your own reputation before you start working under your own employment.  As for becoming a librarian, you will need further education to even be considered by a library.  University is a requirement, with a four- to six-year program in Library Studies at the very least.  If you wish to know further details, Madam Pince could tell you more.”

Harry doesn’t know about that last bit – he could always just raid the Black library some more and ask Reg instead of braving the feared Hogwarts librarian – but he drinks in the rest of it with attentive ears.  Part of him marvels at the fact that this may be the very first time since he started Hogwarts that he’s actually having a conversation with a teacher that isn’t about Voldemort or the trouble he got into.

And for something so simple, Harry finds it almost exhilarating.  There’s something about discussing Harry’s career paths and future that makes him confusingly happy.

They chat for a little while longer before McGonagall dismisses him fifteen minutes before dinnertime with a promise that she would contact him with the time of his exams by tomorrow morning at the latest.  She seems much more pleased with him as he takes his leave.

He doesn’t get to talk to Reg again until tomorrow, and he can hardly wait.  It hasn’t even been two days and he misses his mentor already.  But he’s back at Hogwarts this year to do himself proud, and to do Reg proud, all while learning as much as he can.  There’s still a war waiting in the wings, and the least Harry can do while Reg is somewhere out there, risking his life to strike whatever blows he can against Voldemort, is to be as prepared as he possibly can be when he’ll need to take up his wand and fight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
> *A few parts in this chapter is pulled directly from Chapter 11/12 of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_.


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